Falling Down
by WRTRD
Summary: AU set in the summer after S4. Castle and Beckett have left the precinct, but not together. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Prelude (Him)

He walks out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door for the last time. A flood of rage and grief is so strong that he struggles to find either his breath or his bearings, and he stops after two blocks to lean against a wall. Spring officially arrived a week ago, but the air is raw, and he lets it cool him off. After a few minutes he hails a cab and goes home to his empty loft.

Though by nature a gregarious person, he's glad that no one is there. Alexis is skiing in Vermont with friends for spring break and his mother has taken the opposite route, visiting friends in Florida. He wants to wallow without explanation, and he does, well past midnight, until he collapses into bed, still in his clothes.

He wakes at ten, head throbbing. After two cups of industrial-strength coffee and a 20-minute shower, he phones Captain Gates. They have a brief and remarkably cordial conversation, during which he thanks her and cuts his ties to the precinct, and she says that, despite all, she has appreciated his help. He asks her to keep their call private, and she agrees.

Beckett lied, and she doesn't love him. He'll finish the current Nikki Heat book, but he'll do it without seeing her again.

His vital organs–heart, lungs, stomach, brain–feel as if they're desiccated, shrinking to nothing, as he rides down to the garage. He drops into the driver's seat and presses his forehead against the steering wheel. He has no idea how long he stays that way, but finally buckles his seat belt and turns the key in the ignition. The hum of the engine is vaguely soothing. He'll hole up in the Hamptons for the rest of the week. No chance of running into anyone from the Twelfth there. He just needs to get through the next two months; Alexis will graduate and he'll see her and his mother off on a long European vacation. And then he can decide what the fucking hell he'll do for the rest of his miserable fucking life.

Prelude (Her)

She comes out of the interrogation room one chilly day in late March, and he's gone. He doesn't come back, and doesn't explain. He blocks her calls and texts, and instructs his doorman not to let her upstairs. He won't answer emails or the letter that she writes in desperation. She's sure that the zombie case will reel him back in, and asks Ryan to call him. The detective leaves a voicemail and later gets a five-word text: "Thanks, Kevin, but I'm done."

A sinkhole would have swallowed her after that case, except that it's immediately followed by the one that she's been waiting for: the case with a break in the case that matters above everything else. Her mother's. She almost has him. Almost. She comes so close. But all her training–all the physical workouts and the mental gymnastics–are ultimately worthless. Cole Maddox hurls her off the roof, Ryan pulls her back to safety, and Gates suspends her. She's not taking it. Something, she's not sure what, suffuses her. Some weird resolve. She drops her gun on the Captain's desk, holds her badge in her hand for several moments in a bittersweet goodbye, and leaves it next to the gun. "Keep it," she says. "I resign."

She leaves the place that for years has been more home to her than home, and walks until she's in a neighborhood where she doesn't recognize anything. Not a coffee shop or a drugstore, not a dry cleaner or a church, not a barbershop or a school. There's a dingy bar with an entrance four steps down from the street. It's so dark inside that she can hardly make out the interior, which is exactly what she wants. Two people are on barstools, but not together, and neither pays her any attention as she walks to the far end and sits down.

"What can I get you?" the bartender asks.

"Bourbon." Before he can ask if she has a brand in mind–if, in fact, he was going to ask–she adds, "Any kind. Whatever's nearest."

He takes a few steps to his left, grabs a Jim Beam and a glass, and pours it.

"Leave the bottle," she says, pushing a $50 across the stained, burnished wood. "Please."

She manages to get home on her own, and spends most of the next day in bed, a horde of tiny blacksmiths hammering on anvils in her head. In the early evening she has recovered sufficiently to open her laptop, and does some quick and fruitful research. The next day she packs a duffel bag, locks up her apartment, takes a cab to the cut-rate garage where she keeps her motorcycle, and heads north. She has no idea what she's doing or will do, only what she's done and won't do again.

July 2012

The rough-hewn cabin that she's rented in the Catskills suits her well. It has a bathroom with a stall shower but no tub–which takes a little getting used to–a bedroom, and a living room with a makeshift kitchen tucked into a corner. There's no insulation and no A/C, but it's so cool at night that she doesn't miss it. The spring on the screen door is broken, and if she forgets to hang on to the handle when she goes out the resulting slam makes her jump.

She forgets a lot lately, more than she had when she arrived in May. But things are different now. She's different. When she landed here she thought that she'd use the unbroken swaths of time to read all the things that she'd set aside over the last few years. She had, at first. She'd cover a few chapters in the morning, maybe eat lunch, take a walk and hope not to see anyone, read some more in the late afternoon with the sounds of bugs and birds as a backdrop. She'd make herself a drink, and read. And then another drink. She willed herself not to think of Castle, and at first she'd succeeded.

Two months in, she is reading less and less. Sometimes she reads the same page–or paragraph or sentence–more than once. Probably a lot more than once. Sometimes she suspects that she hasn't taken a shower that day, and is still in yesterday's clothes. She begins to miss more meals than she eats, and her will not to think of Castle disintegrates. What did she do to drive him away? The phantom version of him begins to creep into bed with her at night but abandons her if she moves; glares silently from the chair opposite her while she has her bourbon or wine; whispers accusations in her ear while she tries to read.

It's July 14th. Bastille Day. The cabin has felt like a prison today, felt like the unliberated Bastille prison in Paris: it's hot and pouring and she hasn't been able to spend time outdoors. There's no wifi or TV, and radio reception is almost nonexistent. She has a portable DVD player and some movies, but none appeals to her. At seven o'clock she yanks open the door of the cabinet to the left of the fridge. What the hell? Where's the booze? She bought some, a lot, she doesn't remember exactly, a few days ago. Hadn't she? Yes. So where the hell did it go? She opens the door to the little cupboard under the sink and pulls out the bucket. Oh. It's full of empties. Shit. She wants a drink. She's going to have to go into the town and the damn liquor store is about to close. She'll drive fast. Who's gonna stop her? Nobody's around up here to give her a ticket. Besides, she's a cop. It's Bastille Day. _Liberté, égalité, fraternité_. Okay, so she's no longer in the fraternity of cops. But she's a retired member of the blue line, still part of the blue line. She gets on her bike and roars onto the potholed, two-lane blacktop.

Dammit. Goddammit. The liquor store closed five minutes ago. In the glass-fronted door the faded CLOSED sign sags at an angle, one corner bent at a similar angle. The lights are off. She wants a drink. Needs a drink. Leaving her motorcycle at the curb, she walks to the end of the four-block-long Main Street which gives on to Prospect Avenue. She grimaces. Some prospect: it's totally bleak. Except, yes, yes, there's a bar about a hundred yards down.

She's not prepared for small-town Saturday night, especially a small town that's unknown to developers or searchers of the quaint. There's not much to do here, and very little hope. That's fine, because she doesn't want to do much and the only thing she's hoping for is a drink.

It's crowded and noisy, but she finds a stool near the door and takes it. She's sipping on her surprisingly not-too-bad bourbon, surrounded by bad music from an old jukebox, when some guy shoulders her. She turns to look– he's wearing neatly creased Levi's, a tee shirt with the legend YOUR PRAYERS ARE ANSWERED, and minty aftershave so liberally applied that it almost overwhelms the music–and turns back. She takes a healthy swig of her drink and he almost nuzzles her ear.

"I like a girl who likes her liquor," he says.

"I'm not a girl," she says, hoping that will drive him as fast and as far away as she had driven Castle.

A large hand cups her shoulder. "Ooh, a women's libber, huh? Well, I like a woman who likes her liquor."

She shrugs his hand away. Women's libber? How old is this guy, anyway? "I'm a woman who likes to drink alone," she says firmly.

"Don't look like you wanna drink alone. Way you're dressed and all."

The way she's dressed? She's wearing jeans and a tee shirt for God's sake. She raises her eyes to the mirror and sees his focussed on her chest. Oh, wearing a tee shirt and no bra. She hadn't even noticed. Worse, the tee shirt is white and very sheer. Even in the dim light she can make out the color of her nipples "Look, no offense, but I really do want to be alone. I'm sure there are plenty of other women here whose prayers you can answer."

"Bitch," he says, before he walks away.

Her prayers were answered, after all, at least that one. She signals to the bartender for a refill. Halfway through she starts wondering what kind of pick-up line Castle would use in a bar. Course he'd never be in a bar like this. He'd be in the kind with velvet-covered banquettes decorated with nail heads and sleek lighting fixtures that cost more than her annual pay. Assuming she had annual pay, which she doesn't. She has no pay of any kind. Her glass is empty, and she lifts it to her chin and tilts it towards Bryce. Bryce is the bartender, who hustles over. "Double," she says. "Make this one a double." He pours her the stronger drink.

What if Castle nudged her shoulder the way Mr. Answered Prayers had? What would he say? She swirls the liquid in her glass, watches it eddy. It looks like water going down the drain. That's appropriate. She takes another sip, and another, then dips her finger tip in and licks it off. What would Castle be wearing? The Levi's maybe, but the shirt? No way. He's very sure of himself, but no. He might have boxers that say YOUR PRAYERS ARE ANSWERED, though. She snickers at the idea, and covers her mouth with her hand. She'd love to see him in those. Love to see him out of them. That would be an answered prayer, wouldn't it? Not that she'd tell him. It would swell his head even more–she chokes on the bourbon and spills a little. Not _that_ head, she says to herself. Not _that_ swollen head. Get a hold of yourself, Kate.

She'd spilled more than she thought: her glass is dry. "Bryce?''

The bartender, more harried than he had been earlier, looks her way.

"'nother, please."

Bryce returns, wiping his hand on his apron. "You sure?" He sounds tentative.

"Don't I look sure?"

"Um, yes. Just."

"I've got a hollow leg, Bryce." She looks evenly at him. "Don't worry about me."

"Okay, but–"

"Just gimme another double, please. I promise that I'll behave. You can trust me. I'm a cop."

He wipes his hand on his apron again, and swallows hard. "Okay."

The bourbon goes down easy, and fast. It's getting hotter and noisier in here, and she's going to go home. Why don't bars have take-out? She could get one to go. It'd be great. She wouldn't drink it on her bike. She's not stupid. But she could put it in the fridge and have it tomorrow.

Waving a hand to let Bryce know she wants to pay up, she uses the other to fish her wallet out of her bag. "Thanks, barkeep," she says, adding a tip that's probably bigger than any he's ever gotten. He's a sweet guy. Worried about her. She slides off the stool and goes out into the fresh air.

It's blissfully quiet, the kind of stillness you never get in Manhattan, no matter what time it is, or what the weather. She's just turning onto Main when someone steps out of a shadowed doorway and stops in front of her.

"You turned me down in there," the answered-prayer man says. He's bigger than she'd realized. Menacing, too.

"Told you nicely that I wanted to be alone." She moves to the right to get around him, but he grabs her elbow, hard enough to make her stumble, though she doesn't fall.

"Not used to being turned down," he says, his stale breath a miasma on her face.

She straightens up and gives him her steeliest look. "Let go of me."

"Nuh-uh, honey. You're not from around here. I'm gonna show you how things are in my town. You'll like it."

Strong enough for this, she wrests her elbow from his hand and starts striding to her bike. He grabs her from behind, his arm locked across her chest.

"Where you goin', gorgeous?"

"Away from here."

He spins her around and kisses her, rough and messily, his hand under her shirt. Every bit of training she has ever had kicks in, and she unleashes all the anger that she's been holding since May. She knees him in the crotch and with an almost simultaneous upward thrust of her arm breaks his nose. He goes down like a rock, but his blood is all over his face and her hand. He screams as loud as anyone she's ever heard, and she takes off. She's almost at her bike when she hears a siren and sees the flashing lights coming her way. Oh, fuck. The cops.

TBC

 **A/N** A birthday present for a friend in the frozen north. Also: I've learned not to say how many chapters a story will be, but I expect this to be four or so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

He used to love summer, especially after he'd bought this house. He loved cooking outside, loved walking on the beach, loved the quiet at night and the noise of Alexis and her friends during the day. He'd write downstairs, with the window open, and hear the kids as they played on the lawn or by the pool. He'd set his phone to go off every 30 minutes, to make sure that his milky-skinned daughter didn't need more sunblock, or to take lemonade out to all of them. Occasionally he'd cannonball into the pool without warning, just to revel in the shrieks that that evoked.

Last summer had soured him on the season. He'd worked so hard with Esposito and Ryan, trying to find the sniper who'd literally put a bullet in Beckett's heart and figuratively put one in his own, worked 24/7 until Captain Gates, Montgomery's cold-blooded replacement, kicked him out. Then he'd had time for nothing but obsessing over Beckett. Was she recovering well? Was Josh with her? Why hadn't she called? Why wouldn't she call? She'd said that she'd call. His mood had gotten darker and darker, anger beginning to eat at him from the outside in. Not just anger at the elusive sniper, but at Beckett herself, especially Beckett. He'd found it almost impossible to finish _Heat Rises_ , but he had, though he tasted acid with every word he typed.

And then she'd come back, and so had he. They'd mended fences and reached some weird, not entirely clearly- voiced understanding that she wanted some sort of a relationship but wasn't ready, and he'd agreed to wait. He'd allowed himself to think about summer, about how she might, just might, agree to visit him in the Hamptons. That would fully restore the glory of summer for him. They'd had six months of increasingly warm exchanges, until the March day when she'd frozen him out by telling that little snot in interrogation something that she'd denied him: that she remembered every detail of her shooting.

It's the middle of July now, and he loathes this summer even more than its predecessor. Alexis is almost grown; no more reminding her to put on more sunscreen or finish her sandwich, no more castle-building or eating lobster rolls on the beach. She starts college in September, and though she's living here at the house, she's seldom around. He doesn't blame her, can't blame her: she wants to be independent, to hang out with her friends before they all go off in different directions, and why not? He's the lousiest company imaginable. He has a book to finish and he's barely started. Nikki Heat is dead to him. If he could only force his way through this one and work on finding a new character, or maybe leave crime altogether for something with more literary merit.

What a joke.

He'd foregone a Bastille Day party that a French family down the road had invited him to, and is sound asleep when his cell phone rings. He grabs it immediately, heart already in overdrive. It's almost midnight; has Alexis been in an accident? He squints at the screen. Who the hell is calling him? Forget it, let it go to voicemail. Wait, maybe it's a friend of Alexis's and his or her–please, please let it be a her–number isn't on his phone. He answers just in time.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Rick Castle?"

"Who's calling?"

"Sergeant Jack Masden, Berryville police department."

Huh? "Sorry, Berryille?"

"In the Catskills."

Jesus Christ, has Alexis gone to the mountains? Why would she do that? Except that it's Saturday night and adolescents can do wildly unpredictable things, especially on Saturday night, even if his daughter never has. "Is this about Alexis, Sergeant? Has something happened to her?"

"Alexis?"

"Alexis, my daughter. She's eighteen. She went out with friends but I'm sure she's home. I'll go check, I'll–I fell asleep. I'll go–"

"Mister Castle, this isn't about your daughter. It's about Katherine Beckett. You're the ICE contact on her phone."

If anyone had asked him if his heart could drop as hard as it had then had, he'd have said no, and he'd have been wrong. Is she dead? Where's her father's cabin? In Berryville? Did the sniper track her there? Run her off the road? "Beckett?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is she all right?"

"No, sir. She's been arrested."

"For what?"

"Assault. Drunk and disorderly."

Can't be. Impossible. It must be the other way around. Some D&D asshole must have assaulted her. "She told you to call me?"

"No, we took her cell phone and checked it after she passed out. That was right after she said she was a cop. But no one around here knows her and she's not carrying a badge or a weapon. Still, professional courtesy if she really is on the job. Thought I'd reach out."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Up to you, sir. But if you're friend or family, you might want to come up here. Or if you're her attorney. Or a cop."

He thinks before answering. "Okay. I'll come, just. It won't be right away. I mean, I'm a ways away."

"No rush."

"No rush?"

"She's out for the count. Won't be going anywhere anytime soon."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

He ends the call. He's her ICE? How can that be? If he weren't done with her, he'd be flattered. But he is done with her. Maybe he'll call Lanie in the morning, ask her to go. Or Jim. Oh, God, not Jim. His only daughter is so drunk that she's passed out, apparently after beating someone up. That would destroy the man, and he owes Jim Beckett the courtesy of not letting him know his daughter's current state. He's going back to sleep. Let her stew in her own juice–considerable juice, apparently–at least until the morning. He rolls over and closes his eyes.

No dice. He flips onto his back and stares at the ceiling. Why is she in a town he's never heard of somewhere in the Catskills? Obviously it's not where her father's cabin is, or the locals would know her. He thinks back to their one brief conversation about where she'd spent the Horrendous Summer of 2011 and finally remembers: her father's cabin is northeast of the city, almost on the Massachusetts border, nowhere near the Catskills. More to the painful point, why is she drunk out of her mind? Obviously she's alone or the cop would have said something. Wouldn't even have called him, probably. Aw, shit. He'll go.

He picks up his phone again and searches for driving instructions. Berryville is 200 miles from here. If he leaves now he should be there by 4 a.m. He yawns and shakes his head. Hell, no, he's not hauling his ass up there now. D&D. Jesus, Beckett, what is wrong with you? He'll take a nap and then leave. He lies back down, only to sit up again. Why hadn't Beckett convinced Sergeant What's His Name, or at least mentioned to him, that she's not just a cop but a highly decorated NYPD detective? What the hell is going on?

After a quick shower he makes himself a Thermos of coffee and grabs an energy bar. If he were a more forgiving man, he'd bring her a latte with vanilla. He _is_ a forgiving man, but even he has a limit, and she pushed him past it. So forget it, she's not worth it. Does Berryville even have lattes? He's on the road at one a.m., but 20 miles from town he stops at a strip mall where there's a Dunkin' Donuts that's open 24/7. God bless America's fast food addiction, he thinks, as he gets out of the car and stretches. He's not sure if it's better to face Beckett with a full stomach or an empty one, but opts for the former. He needs strength to do whatever he's going to do, and he's very unsure what that is. How serious is the charge? Will they give her a pass, or at least a reduction in charges, because she's a cop? There may be no love lost between the local force and the big-city one, but still, the blue bond is powerful. Should he get her a lawyer? He could do that and leave, wouldn't even need to see her. He'll talk to the Sergeant. He seemed like a decent enough guy on the phone.

"Good morning," he says to the woman behind the counter, who must be at least as old as his mother.

"Morning," she says. She looks end-of-shift exhausted. "What can I get you?"

"I was thinking maybe doughnuts."

"Good choice," she says, not quite suppressing a smile.

"What's your favorite?" he asks conspiratorially.

"Probably shouldn't say, but since no one's here but us chickens? Glazed. No contest."

"A woman after my own heart." When she nods, he says, "I'll take a dozen."

"Would you like 'em in a box?"

"Definitely. Don't want 'em to get squished."

"Ought to be a law," she says, turning to fetch a waxed-cardboard box which she quickly fills. "Want coffee with those?"

"Please. And another doughnut in the bag, for the road." His stomach is already sloshing with the coffee he brought from home, but he can't turn her down. When she rings up his order he hands her $50. "Keep the change."

Her cheeks pink slightly. "You don't have to do that."

"I do. Being a good tipper is part of my DNA. My mother used to be a waitress. Besides, you made the perfect doughnut recommendation."

"Well, then, thank your mother for me." She cranes her next as she looks around the shop, as if checking to make sure no one can overhear her. "Um, could I ask you a favor?"

A favor? What favor could he possibly do? "Sure."

She pushes a paper napkin across the counter. "Would you mind autographing this? I want to put it inside my copy of _Heat Wave_. I recognize you from your picture on the back, Mister Castle."

"Wow. I'm flattered. But it's Rick. And you are?" He smiles and raises an eyebrow.

"Carol Ann. No E."

"Okay, Carol Ann, no E." He signs the napkin and slides it back to her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Have a good day."

"Thanks." A good day? It's going to be the worst, but her sentiment is genuine.

The plastic shopping bag is swinging from his hand, and he's almost at the door when she calls out. "Hey, Rick? Don't eat all those doughnuts in one sitting."

He laughs, a genuine laugh, and waves goodbye.

When he pulls in front of the Berryville police station he's sweating, even though it's only half an hour after sunrise and 63 degrees. Stepping into the small building, he notes two battered chairs to the left of the entrance, presumably for visitors, and a counter on the right, with a low wall inset with a gate. In the rear there's a cluster of desks and filing cabinets. The door in the back wall is closed, and he assumes the holding cells–maybe cell, singular, given the size of the town–are behind it. The whole place has the look and feel of a bad TV show.

The burly, gray-haired man behind the counter is already sizing him up.

"Sergeant Masden?" Thank God he remembered the man's name.

"Mister Castle?"

"Yes."

"Figured. We don't get a lot of out-of-towners in here." He jabs his thumb towards the back of the station. "Other than your friend in there."

Friend? What should he call her? Former would-be girlfriend? Onetime shadowee? He clears his throat and says only, "Right."

The Sergeant takes off his reading glasses and looks squarely at him. "She really a cop?"

Ah, okay, this is something he can handle. "Yes, she is."

"And?"

"And she's a homicide detective, NYPD."

"You don't say?"

"I do."

"Don't mind my saying so, you don't look like a cop."

"You're right, I'm not."

"So what are you, her husband? She's not wearing a ring. You get in a fight and she come up here for some reason? Drown her sorrows?"

He has no more knowledge–probably less–about Beckett's reason for being here than the Sergeant does. And since said Sergeant knows his name, he should probably come clean. "I'm a writer. I based a character on her and used to shadow her at her precinct but we, uh, lost touch."

"Uh, huh."

With hopes of sweetening this painful conversation, he places the plastic bag on the counter. "I've spent a lot of time with cops, even though I'm not one, and we all loved doughnuts. I thought the Berryville force might, too."

"Thanks," Masden says, without so much as peeking in the bag or inhaling the sugary scent that's emanating from it. "So, you wanna talk to Miss–Detective–Beckett?"

"Does she know you called me?"

"Nope."

Geez, this is not easy work. "She need a lawyer?"

"Maybe."

"Can you tell me about the assault?"

"She'd left a bar and a guy tried to talk to her. She dropped him with a knee to his balls and broke his nose. We got there, like, thirty seconds later. She was about to get on her motorcycle but I could smell the booze on her before I even got out of the car."

Holy shit. "She resist arrest?"

"Nope."

First good news he's had. "I gotta say, this doesn't sound like the Beckett I know. My guess? She was provoked."

"Yeah, well. That's what they usually say, right?"

Furious as he is with Beckett, he's pissed off at this guy, who's clearly something of a Neanderthal. He clenches and unclenches his fist, grateful that Madsen can't see it. "This is a misdemeanor, though, right?"

"Yup. Still a crime."

No kidding. "I'd like to talk to her, then. And I'll make sure she has a lawyer if she's going to need one. Will she be arraigned today?"

Masden looks at him as if he's not all there. "This isn't New York City, with round-the-clock courts. It'll be tomorrow."

"Okay. Thank you. But I would like to see her."

Another glare. "You sure you're not her boyfriend?"

"Not her boyfriend."

"Right." He turns slowly and swaggers to the door. "C'mon," he says over his shoulder. "Gate's open."

Castle follows, a few steps behind, and stops several several feet before his escort does. He can see the bars of the holding cell, but not her.

"Someone here to see you," Madsen says, unlocking the gate. "Says you really are a cop. I'll put you in interrogation with him."

Interrogation? His brain unspools thousands of images of them in interrogation at the Twelfth and he can, not happily, taste the doughnut he ate at the curb.

"Who is it?" she asks, her voice scratchy and tired.

Oh, God, she looks awful. He's in the shadows, but she's in full if grimy light. She hasn't seen him yet. Her hair is dull, and so is her skin. Her tee shirt–stained with what, vomit? blood?–is hanging on her, but he can tell that she has no bra underneath it. Three months ago her underwear-less state would have thrilled him; now it shatters him. She looks like the one thing he'd have staked all his money on her never being: a drunk.

Her head turns slowly to the left. "Castle?"

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you so much for all the reviews (including those to which I cannot reply), follows, and favorites, and for traveling this dark road with me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

He looks wonderful. He looks awful. He looks–. She's not sure. Until a few months ago she could read him perfectly, but he's lost to her now. He's looking at her and her heart is about to explode through her tee shirt. He's looking so hard at her that he might be able to see it pounding. Can he? She glances down. Son of a bitch, her shirt is a mess. What's even on it? She brushes her hand over her chest in a futile attempt to wipe away whatever's there and to smooth out the wrinkles. Oh, God. She's not even wearing a bra. Her mouth has never tasted worse. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, and finds a small crack in the dry skin. He's still looking at her, hasn't turned away. He looks–. He looks _disappointed_.

In that instant her heart develops a crack much larger than the one on her lip.

"What the hell are you doing here, Castle?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Beckett."

She hadn't wanted to say that to him, hadn't had the wits to think what to say before something tumbled out, but it shouldn't have been that. It should never have been that. She's so mad at him, but he's here. He's come to this hellhole after so many months of not seeing her. He came here. "I mean, why did you come? You came."

"I came."

"Hate to interrupt your sparkling conversation," Masden says, "but I gotta put you two in interrogation. I gotta lot of things to do." He directs himself to her. "And mind your manners. I'm giving you the benefit, you know, since your pal here swears that you really are a cop. Detective, no less." He turns back the way that he and Castle had come, leads them to the end of the hallway, and opens the door to a small interrogation room. Other than its dimensions, it could pass for one in the Twelfth.

Beckett grabs the back of the chair on the near side.

"Uh-uh," the Sergeant says, stopping her. "You take the other one. You're the guilty party in here. Sorry, alleged guilty party."

She's dying to tell him to shut the fuck up, but this time succeeds in verbal self-censorship. She walks around the table to what she thinks of as the PS–the Perp Side–scrapes the chair on the linoleum, and sits down. Castle positions himself directly opposite her. He's holding himself stiffly, hands on his lap. It's a posture she doesn't remember him ever having taken.

They're alone in the room. One of them has to be the first to break eye contact, the first to say something. Anything.

"Sorry," she mumbles.

"Sorry?"

"I look like crap."

"You do."

"Jesus, you don't have to agree with me." Her eyes slide to the left. She can't bear to see his expression. His disappointment.

"Haven't agreed with you at all, in months."

Her eyes snap back. "Whose fault is that?"

"Fault? We're talking fault?"

"You're the one who left."

He covers his face with his hands, his head so low that his chin is nearly on his chest. Is he angry? Sad? Both? Because she's both, and right now her emotional balance is so bad that she's dangerously close to tipping over into tears. Her mouth still tastes awful, like death. If only she could die right here, end this right here.

"Well, as you observed a moment ago, I came up here."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why did you come?"

"Why do you think?"

She slumps a little in the chair. If it weren't so sticky, she'd probably slide all the way off and onto the floor. "I don't know, Castle. Why don't you just put both of us out of our misery and tell me. How did you know I was here?"

Several seconds—which hang like a death sentence in the stale air of the room—elapse before he answers. He feels defeated. Something like that. "The Sergeant. Masden. He called me around midnight and I drove up from the Hamptons."

He's speaking English, but it might as well be Hungarian. She's in the dark in every way. "Why would he call you?"

"ICE. For some reason–and believe me, I can't imagine what it is, or was–I'm your In Case of Emergency contact."

Oh, Goddammit. She'd never changed it. She'd made him her ICE person the day after he'd returned to the precinct last September. She hadn't told him, though. Too shy. And then she'd forgotten about it. She straightens up a bit and insists, "It wasn't an emergency."

His eyes are flashing now, like some kind of blue warning lights. Like on a squad car. Like Code Blue in the hospital when the patient is crashing. "It wasn't an emergency? Your being so drunk that you assaulted someone, gave all kinds of shit to the cops who brought you in, and then passed out isn't an emergency? Sure as hell sounds like one to me. I gotta say, Beckett, when I dream about seeing you again in a police station, it's not this one."

"You dream about me?"

"Figure of speech. I'm a writer, in case you've forgotten." It's not a figure of speech; it's a lie. It fills him with pain, but he still dreams of her. He can't control that part of his unconscious, his subconscious, no matter how hard he tries. If she were in better shape, she'd be able to tell that he's lying. But she's in terrible shape. Why hadn't anyone let him know? Ryan, at least. He and Ryan always had a good relationship. Things with him and Espo had an edge, but Kevin was softer. But he hadn't heard from him in–. No wonder. Ryan had phoned him in April about a case, left him a voicemail, tried to get him to come in. He closes his eyes and can see the screen on his phone, what he'd typed. "Thanks, Kevin, but I'm done." He shakes his head, but the image is still there. He's not sure which is worse, that or what he sees when he opens his eyes again.

"Fine," she snaps. "I don't dream about you, either." Can he tell that she's lying? Every freaking night she dreams about him.

She's lying, too. He's sure of it. Okay, they're both lying. But what does it mean? Or matter? It means she still isn't out of his system, and he has to purge her. What's in her system now is booze. She reeks of it. She's way too thin. She was drunk last night, and he's terrified that it wasn't the first time, or the second or the third or the tenth since he'd seen her last. Not from the looks of it, the look of her, and he steels himself to ask her his next question.

"What the hell happened, Beckett? You were drunk and assaulted someone. That's why I'm here. Bail you out, get you a lawyer."

"I can bail myself out," she says, with a bite. "And I don't need a lawyer. I'm not guilty."

"Not guilty? I don't want to be rude, but since you're the reason I got up in the middle of the night and drove 200 miles I think I'm allowed to be straightforward. I can still smell booze on you, Beckett, and you've been here for seven hours. So you must have drunk one hell of a lot, and you assaulted some guy. Broke his nose. His blood is on your shirt."

"Self-defense."

Maybe he'll get the real story, or maybe not, but the Sergeant had really pissed him off with the that's-what-women-always-say crap, so he's going to hear her out.

"Tell me what happened."

She shrugs and looks sideways again. "I was having a drink and a guy in the bar hit on me. I asked him to leave me alone, which he didn't like, so I told him again and he went away, but he was pissed off. Called me a bitch. When I was on my way home he was waiting, down the block. It was dark, no one around. I couldn't see him. He blindsided me. Grabbed me."

She stops.

Maybe she needs a little encouragement. "You didn't shake him off?"

"He was a big guy. Bigger than you." She stops again. "I did shake him off, but he came after me again, from behind. And then he spun me around, hard, and his tongue was halfway down my throat and he shoved his hand under my shirt." Her voice has thickened in the telling, and it's slightly wobbly. "I knew he was going to rape me, and I had to stop him."

He feels sick. He wants to strangle the guy, and punch out Masden. She's going to be up against it, the old he-said-she-said argument, with public sentiment almost certainly with the local guy, not the drunk woman from the city in her see-through tee shirt. He can hear the bullshit already: "she was asking for it." She'll be charged only with a misdemeanor; she'll probably get a fine and a waived sentence. Will if he gets her a good lawyer, anyway. But why shouldn't she be able to have a fighting chance against the man who assaulted her?

"Did anyone see the guy bothering you in the bar? That could help."

The fight in her has evaporated. "I doubt it."

"You were sitting at the bar, right?" She nods. "So how about the bartender? He see this jerk?"

For the first time since the awful moment when he saw her coming out of the cell, her eyes brighten slightly. "Probably."

"Think he could have heard what he said to you? What you said back?"

"Yeah."

"So let's ask him."

"Um, not quite that simple."

"Okay, maybe you can't, but your lawyer can."

The silence that meets this is uncomfortable, and long. She's looking away again, and worrying the hem of her tee shirt. "I don't want a lawyer."

"Beckett?"

She's still mute.

"Beckett? There something wrong?"

"No. I can defend myself, all right? I know my way around a courtroom. Both sides."

That doesn't sit right. He doesn't think that's the reason. Yes, she's a brilliant detective, and yes, she's the daughter of two successful lawyers, but that won't help her defend herself against this particular stacked deck. He wants to leave, but he can't. He doesn't want her to lose, no matter how angry he is at her, or how appalled he is by her physical condition. He may be in a writing funk, but he's a storyteller, and he wants to know what the story is here. He wants to know her story. Beckett's. Not just what happened last night, but what happened to turn her into whatever she has become. And then, from nowhere, comes a name. He blurts it out, "Kathy Moore."

"What?"

"Kathy Moore. That nitwit in the Raglan case. Remember? They pulled a fingerprint from her arm, Hal Lockwood's fingerprint. He accidentally touched her on his way into the building when he went in to shoot Raglan."

"What's your point?"

"You haven't taken a shower."

The sting in her voice returns. "Thanks for the reminder."

He puts his hands up, a conciliatory gesture. "I'm not criticizing you." Well, he is, but. "This guy, the one who was–." Nausea sweeps through him again, and he almost chokes on bile before he can pull himself back together. "The bastard who came after you. He shoved his hand under your shirt. Maybe he left his fingerprints on your–." This time he stops. Not her breast. Please, God, not her breast. "Maybe he left fingerprints on the skin over your ribcage. That would prove something, wouldn't it?" Maybe it's the overhead light, or maybe it's a light that's gone on his head, but now he notices something else, just above her left elbow. He hadn't seen it before because he couldn't stomach looking at her too closely: what he'd dismissed as dirt is in fact a bruise. Vivid purple, it's obviously fresh and it must hurt like hell. Without thinking, he reaches across the table and lightly touches her arm. "Did he do that to you?"

She pulls away, and they both flinch. "Yes."

He reaches into his pocket and draws out his cell phone. "Let me take a picture. I doubt that the Sarge out there will do it, and this is evidence. And it'll be time stamped." He doesn't wait for her to say yes, just leans forward and takes a series of photos of the ugly marks on her upper arm. "Can you turn it a little?"

Though she doesn't look him in the eye, she does as he asks. When he takes the last shot, two of his fingers brush against her. It's not deliberate, and it's not pleasant. Her skin feels both clammy and dry, and her elbow is so sharp he wants to get her a long-sleeved shirt so that she can cover up. He sucks air in through his teeth, and she pulls away again.

"Sorry," he says.

She hugs her arms against her chest, her palms concealing her elbows.

"Sorry," he says again. "It's. It's–his fingers left marks, Beckett. It's like a perfect impression of his hand."

He's being so nice. Kind. Considerate. She's glad he's here. She wishes he weren't. She looks like crap. She smells. Why is he being nice?

"Can I get you something?"

He wants to get her something? Hair of the dog is what she wants. Can't very well ask him for that. She doesn't know what he can get her.

"Coffee? I have some in the car, in a Thermos. I brought it from home."

That's what breaks her.

 **A/N** Thank you for such an astonishing show of support for this story. Clearly it will be considerably longer than four chapters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It's horrifying and mesmerizing. He has never seen anyone cry the way she is, even in a movie. Her whole body is involved, including her feet, which are curled around the front legs of her chair as if to stabilize her. She's anything but stable, but the strange and unsettling thing is that she's making no sound. It's like watching someone in a Greek tragedy who is consumed by an awful, elemental force so mighty that it mutes her. Her mouth is open wide, as if she were in both physical and emotional pain. Tears are drenching the front of her tee shirt, and her nose is running; she's rocking in an odd rhythm, her arms locked like bands across her chest. He curses himself for not having a handkerchief, but no handkerchief would be equal to the task. He's not equal to the task, either, and is paralyzed with indecision. How should he respond? Should he hug her? Go find a box of Kleenex? Say something? Say nothing? What prompted this? He's so alarmed by her state that he can't think straight.

What happened?

Coffee. Oh, God, he'd said he had coffee in the car that he'd brought from home. For a long time coffee was the thing that connected them: a comfort, an apology, a resolution, a celebration. Until a few months ago, it was the bridge where, even in the worst times, they could meet in the middle. That must be it. Mustn't it? He pushes his chair away from the table, stands up, and leans slightly towards her.

"I'm going to get the coffee, okay?" he says softly. "I'll be right back."

When he reaches the door he looks back. She's still rocking, still crying.

He walks down the short, dimly-lit corridor, opens the door to the main area of the station, and pokes his head in. "Sergeant?"

Masden looks up from his desk, a pen in his right hand and half a doughnut in his left, as large and leathery as a catcher's mitt. "Yeah?"

"Beck–. Detective Beckett is in interrogation. I pushed the button in so the door is locked. That okay? I have a Thermos of coffee in my car and I'd like to get it. She could use it."

"Yeah. I noticed."

"So it's all right?"

"Yeah. Go on."

There are moments when he's glad that he doesn't have to think about money, and this is one of them. By now coffee in an ordinary Thermos would be tepid, but in his outrageously worth-every-dollar model it will still be hot. He looks down the street and wonders if there's a market in Berryville that sells vanilla. At seven o'clock, or whatever it is, on a Sunday morning. Never mind. He gets the Thermos from the front seat and checks the glove compartment. Good, there's a little package of Oreos in there; maybe he could get Beckett to choke down a cookie. Half a cookie. A bite. A crumb. He has a small first-aid kit there, too, and finds a packet of aspirin. Part of him wonders if he should just get in the car and go home. Find a decent lawyer and send him or her to the police station, because this is too much for him. He's still hurt and he's still angry. But so is she, and he doesn't know why. And when she broke down just now, she seemed so vulnerable. He runs his tired hands over his tired eyes, and shuts the car door.

He's not going home.

Fifteen feet from the station, he stops. He told her that he "brought the coffee from home." Home. Home. Something about home is niggling at him. Ah. She'd said that before that son of a bitch attacked her "I was on my way home." But home, lower Manhattan, must be 120 miles from here. Why would she be getting on her motorcycle at that hour and going home? Why was she here at all? It doesn't track. So what if it's early? He's texting Ryan. Find out what the hell is going on. But he can't stay out here and wait, not when she's waiting inside for him. If she even registered his saying he was going to get the coffee.

Is he invading her privacy? Maybe. He's not going to say anything about her arrest or the booze, just–just what? Hell. He pulls out his phone and starts texting before he loses his nerve.

"Hi, Ryan. Hope you and Jenny are well. I know I told you I was done, but I'm concerned about Beckett. I dropped by her apartment a couple of weeks ago, but she didn't answer the buzzer. Someone was on the way out of the building, so I went up and slipped a note under the door." Yes, it's a lie. He's telling an NYPD detective a lie. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few moments and continues typing. "I texted her a few times after that but didn't hear from her. Just want to make sure she's OK. Thanks. Castle."

He puts his phone on vibrate, shoves it in his pocket, and re-enters the station. "Coffee," he says, holding up the Thermos so Masden can see that he's not transporting a weapon or a giant file to break Beckett out of here. He suddenly remembers a case almost two years ago, about love. His mother said that being willing to break someone out of prison is true love. When the boys and Beckett and he were talking about it later at the precinct, Beckett said, "Don't worry, Castle. I'd get you out." He has to get her out of here, but legally.

Could you let me back into interrogation, please?"

"Mm-hmm." Masden has a doughnut in his hand. There's only two bites out of it, so it's not the one that he'd been polishing off a few minutes ago. It occurs to Castle that he might eat the entire dozen today, by himself.

"Sorry to bother you," he says, forbidding himself to add "you sugar-glazed cretin." Maybe he should be nicer to the guy. At least he let him leave Beckett unattended in interrogation while he went to get his Thermos.

"No problem." He waddles down the corridor again, Castle in his wake, and jingles an enormous ring of keys before unlocking the door and returning to his desk and doughnut.

Beckett has stopped crying, but her head is on her arms on the table.

"Got the coffee," he says, aiming for chirpiness but failing.

She raises her head slowly and blinks, looking even worse than she had an hour ago. "Why did you come back?"

"Just now?" He feels as if he's been dropped into a tub of ice.

"Yeah."

"I went to the car to get the coffee I made. I think you–we– could use some. He unscrews the cap, removes the two cups that nestle inside, and pours the coffee, pleased to see steam still rising from it. "Here," he says, pushing one cup across the table to her. "That's the clean one. I already drank from the other. And here's something else." His back pocket is home to the Oreos and aspirin, and he offers them to her. She hasn't said anything, so he sits down on his chair. "You must have one hell of a headache. The aspirin will help, and so will the sugar in the cookies."

"Thanks," she mumbles, looking at the coffee rather than at him, and moving the Oreos to the side. "Can't take the cookies." At least her hands are steady when she tears open the package of aspirin, puts the tablets in her mouth, and washes them down with coffee, but she looks miserable.

"Sorry."

"What for?"

"Sorry the coffee isn't vanilla latte."

"Yeah, well I'm sorry it's not Irish."

That brings the conversation, such as it was, to a halt. The tenderness that had begun to fill him rushes out, and anger takes its place. "You making a habit of drinking whiskey for breakfast, Beckett?"

She reacts as if he's slapped her, which in effect he has. "That's none of your business."

"You're right. None of this is my business." Nothing about her has been his business for months. If she's a drunk, it's none of his business. If she's following her father's path, that's her business. He can't get her off it. Whatever the hell sent her down it is her business. The one thing that is his business is doing something to get her assault charge dismissed. He hadn't been there, but he's certain that she acted in self-defense. He has questions about plenty of things–foremost among them why she's hitting the bottle–but not this. Not this.

Wearily he gets to his feet. "I'm leaving the coffee here for you, and the Oreos. I hope that you'll take them. You said you don't want a lawyer. You're the daughter of two attorneys, so you know the old saying that a person who represents herself has a fool for a client. You're no fool. I will send you a lawyer, my parting offering to you. If you still want to defend yourself, fine, but please meet with him or her."

He walks away, but at the door he has another thought, and looks back. His tone is even and emotionless but honest. "My number hasn't changed. If you need help, call me. I'll answer."

Before he can face Masden again, he needs to steady his breathing. When it's under control again, he goes out. "Hi. I left the coffee for her. I'm going home, but I'm sending a lawyer. Even though it's just a misdemeanor, I'd like her to have one. She deserves it. Officer of the law." He offers the Sergeant his hand, and the big cop shakes it.

"Okay."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

"Welcome." He looks back at his paperwork which is, in fact, the local Sunday paper. He's a busy man.

Castle's standing by his car trying to get his emotional bearings when he's startled by the phone vibrating in his pocket. He grabs it and sees a pair of familiar blue eyes on the screen.

"Ryan? Thanks for calling."

"Hey, Castle. It was great to hear from you. Figured you'd be asleep in the ocean breeze. Everything okay? I mean, other than you're worried about Beckett."

"I am. Um, do you know where she is?"

"Not exactly. After she quit she took off, said she needed time by herself. I haven't heard from her in two months. Javi's back, though. We had a rough time at first but we're good now."

He feels as though he's stumbled into some unknown universe, some perverse Brigadoon, where everything looks right but nothing is. He puts his free hand on the car roof for support. "She quit? Espo quit?"

"You don't know anything about that?"

"Not a thing."

Ryan fills him in on what he's missed. When he gets to the part about Cole Maddox throwing Beckett off the roof, about her calling Castle's name, screaming for help, and Ryan hauling her up to safety, it's too much. Castle just manages to say, "Hold on," before doubling over and throwing up in the gutter. Without a handkerchief, he has to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. "Sorry, Ryan."

"You all right?"

"Not really. Uh, and–so she quit after that?"

"No, she quit after Gates suspended her and Espo. Just tossed her gun and badge on the captain's desk and left. He was off work for three weeks. We were spitting mad at each other, you know? We worked it out, but we miss Beckett like crazy. And you. We miss you."

He's six-two, a grown man, a father, standing in a sleepy town with his former partner hungover and under arrest in the little brick building behind him, and he starts to cry. Not the way Beckett had, though he's as quiet as she was, but equally teary. He coughs as he tries to clear his throat. "Does Espo know where she is?"

"I don't think so, but Lanie must. Or her Dad. You should try him."

There's not a chance of that. But Lanie, maybe. He doesn't want to set off too many alarms, though, so he'll wait. She won't like him calling at this hour; she might not like him calling at all. He doesn't care, and he knows exactly what to do until it's late enough to phone Beckett's best friend.

Half an hour later he pulls into the strip mall where he'd stopped earlier today, a million years ago. There's a line in the Dunkin' Donuts–people getting something to take home for Sunday breakfast–and he joins it.

"Hi, Carol Ann no E," he says when it's his turn. He hasn't been this happy to see someone in ages.

"Hey. Didn't expect to see you so soon again. You already ate that whole box?"

"Not me. I used it as a bribe."

"It work?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"That's 'cause you went for the glazed."

"You're right."

"Hey, buddy," a man behind him says. "You buying or window shopping?"

"Buying, buying," Castle says without giving him the satisfaction of turning around. "I'll take a glazed doughnut and a coffee, please. And a container of milk."

"Coming up. Straws are over there." She tilts her head to the left. "Or didja want a glass? You gonna drink it here?"

"A glass would be nice, thank you."

"Yeesh," the whiner behind him says. "A glass."

"Quiet, Mike," Carol Ann says, rebuke in her tone. "Man has manners. Unlike some I could mention."

Castle carries his breakfast to one of the shop's three small tables. While he sips his coffee, he reads today's _New York Times_ on his phone but can't stick with any story long enough to finish it. At nine he calls Lanie.

"Castle?"

"Guilty."

"Damn right you're guilty. I shouldn't even have accepted this call."

"You ever think whatever story you got from Beckett might have two sides?" He hears her sigh, and then some rustling. Maybe she's getting out of bed. He's sorry but he's not sorry. "Look, Lanie, I just want to know where she is." Correction: he know exactly where she is, and her best friend doesn't. What he wants to know is where she's living. Staying. "I'm pretty sure she's renting a place in the Catskills. In Berryville. Please. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important. Do you know where it is?"

"You gonna tell me why?"

"Not now. Later. I know you're pissed off, but please. You've known me for four years."

"You're the only person who made her happy, Castle. She's not easy."

"No kidding."

"You want her address or not?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it with me. She's the one you need to say sorry to."

"I know. I won't forget this, Lanie. I promise."

"Fine. It's one thirty-five Miller's Road."

"Thank you."

"Bye."

Not exactly a cordial exchange, but at least he knows where to go. The shop is empty again–a lull until people stop in after church, maybe–and he approaches the counter. "Do you know Berryville at all?"

"Sure. Grew up there. It's not far from here. You thinking of relocating?" She rolls her eyes, the best he's witnessed since one of Beckett's.

"No, but I do need to find a house. You happen to know where Miller's Road is?"

"Yeah. You don't have that what's-it in your car? Gives you directions?"

"I do, but I don't trust it the way I trust you."

"Want me to draw you a map?"

"Please."

She sketches it on another napkin and he thanks her.

"Don't be a stranger," she says.

"I'm not," he answers, giving her a grin."I've already been here twice today."

The trip takes twenty-five minutes; the whole way there he thinks of nothing and everything. He turns on to Miller's Road and sees the mailbox, with three stick-on reflective numbers, 135, in silver and black, imperfectly placed. It's a cabin, with a short flight of steps leading to the front porch. The door is closed, but the window next to it is open. Either Beckett has become very lax about security, or there's no crime around here. Maybe both. He pulls open the screen door and presses the latch on the wooden front door. Presto, he's inside. The interior is plain, almost Spartan. Standing in the living room, he can make out the kitchen in the corner. There's a large bucket in front of the sink, and he doesn't like what he thinks he sees. He walks over and forces himself to take a hard look. It's nothing but liquor bottles–wine, bourbon, Scotch–and they're all empty. What about food? He looks in the fridge. A small piece of cheese, a bag of coffee, and a shriveled bunch of grapes.

It's not his business. She's not my business. It's not his business. It's not. Except maybe it is. Maybe she is. When he began looking into Johanna Beckett's murder three years ago, she was furious. He still remembers every word she said to him then, as if he had been laser-printed with it, or tattooed.

 _"Castle, you touch my mother's case, and you and I are done. Do you understand?"_

 _"Okay. Why don't you want to investigate it?"_

 _"Same reason a recovering alcoholic doesn't drink."_

The same reason a recovering alcoholic doesn't drink. So why in hell is she drinking?

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you again for such support. You can't imagine how much I appreciate it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Back in the holding cell, Beckett is drinking the coffee because her mouth is dry and coffee is better than the alternative, which is water. Occasionally she glances at the packet of Oreos: time is crawling, but around 10:00 she decides it might be a good idea to have a cookie. Just as Castle had promised, it helps dull the throbbing in her head and dissipate the nausea.

She just wants to get the hell out of here and go back to her cabin where everyone leaves her alone. She's going to have to find another town to shop in, because she won't be able to stomach Berryfreakingville after this. Pacing the floor is doing her no good; besides, she's exhausted. She stretches out on the cot, and rolls onto her side to try to get comfortable. God, it reeks. Doesn't anyone ever clean this place? Her tee shirt is long enough so that she can pull it up over her nose without baring her skin. She inhales deeply, then jumps off the cot as if the mattress were on fire and covers her mouth with her hand. It's her. She's the one who smells so vile. Leaning against the wall, she closes her eyes. How did Castle stand it? How could he not have gagged or recoiled or something? All he'd done was say, "I can still smell booze on you," and it's so much worse than that. She moves her hand to her head; her hair feels greasy. Without intending to, she slides down the wall onto the floor, and cries softly and intermittently until she wears herself out.

"Detective Beckett?"

Her head snaps up; she must have dozed off. Masden is unlocking the cell door.

"Yeah?"

"You got a visitor."

It can't be Castle. For one thing, she's pretty sure that she's driven him away permanently; for another, the Sergeant wouldn't have referred to him as a visitor. "I do?"

"Your lawyer. I put him in interrogation. C'mon."

Her lawyer? Castle really has sent her a lawyer. Following Masden down the corridor, she shoves an Oreo in her mouth; maybe it will cover up the horrible breath she must have. The lawyer, whoever it is, will probably put the maximum distance between them in that little room.

A pleasant looking man abut her age, wearing slacks and a polo shirt, stands up when she enters. "Detective Beckett?" he asks, offering her his hand. "I'm Tim Eckley. It's nice to meet you."

How could it be nice to meet her? She's a wreck, a stinking wreck. But she shakes his hand, grateful for his firm grip, pulls herself together enough to respond with "same here," and sits down.

"Thank you, Sergeant Masden," Eckley says politely, almost warmly, though it's clear that he's waiting for him to leave.

"Welcome," the cop answers, closing the door behind him.

The lawyer picks up a briefcase that's tilting against the table leg and removes a legal pad, pen, and micro tape recorder. "So," he begins, his voice kind. "You have a situation here. Let's see what we can do to clear it up. Do you mind if I tape our conversation? It's just to help me recall details. No one else will hear it."

Dammit, she hates being on the wrong side of the table. And the law. "Oh. Okay. Sure."

"Why don't we begin with what happened in the bar last night. How long were you there before Todd Fredericks approached you?"

"Todd Fredericks? Is he the one…?"

"He's the one. You may not believe it, but he broke my nose. Long time ago."

She's seen the guy for all of a minute, but he's so clean-cut that she's shocked. "In a _bar_ fight?'

"No." He shakes his head and smiles. "We were on the same high school football team. He was a creep then, too."

xxxxxxxx

A few miles and three country roads away from the police station, Castle is sitting in the sunshine on Beckett's porch steps. The weather is all wrong for his mood: it should be stormy and gray and oppressive, not a perfect mid-summer day. Nothing is perfect right now; nothing is even tolerable. For the umpteenth time he checks his watch, then checks the time against his phone. For the umpteenth time they're in synch.

"I remember when Beckett and I were in synch," he says, though no one else is there. "Used to be."

His stomach grumbles: it's been a while since he had that milk and a doughnut. He's not hungry, but he needs his wits about him, and for that he should probably fuel himself with protein and carbs. He'd phoned his lawyer, Steve, a few minutes after he'd found the bucket of empties, and hadn't even apologized for the early hour. He pays the guy enough to call him like this every once in a while, and he's never had this kind of once in a while. Steve has a weekend place in the area, and he'd figured that he must know some lawyers up here. He'd told him Beckett's story, or enough of it to make his point.

"You're in luck," Steve had said when he'd finished.

"I am?"

"Yeah. I know a great kid–not a kid, but barely thirty–who grew up here. Used to mow our grass. Anyway, I could tell he was incredibly smart, and he liked to talk to me about the law. Long story short, I took him under my wing. He could be on the partner track in a white-shoe firm, but he hung his shingle up in Warren, about five miles from Berryville, and plans to stay for a couple more years. Says he likes getting his 'lawyerly feet wet' that way. Want me to get in touch with him?"

"Oh, God, yes. Please."

Less than fifteen minutes later Tim Eckley had called Castle. Not long after that they had ended the call and the young attorney had been on his way to see Beckett.

That was a couple of hours ago, and Castle's phone has remained silent. He's a big believer in client confidentiality, but he wants to know if Beckett at least agreed to talk to the guy. He needs to fill his time until he hears something. He'd thought about putting the bottles in the trunk of his car and taking them to the nearest recycling bin, but hadn't: that's a boundary for Beckett to cross, not him. Figuring he could probably get a decent lunch in the diner that he'd noticed not far from the police station, he slaps the dust off his jeans, and drives to town. Maybe he'll see Masden there, maybe he won't; the person he's hoping to spot emerging from the station is Tim Eckley.

He's halfway through a turkey club sandwich–he's eating it slowly because he keeps putting it down to look diagonally across the street at the station house door–when his uncharacteristic patience is rewarded. Eckley is outside and walking his way, alone. Castle has had a text ready since he sat down, and now he hits send.

It's interesting to watch a young professional, particularly an attorney, deal with what could be an important, private text. Eckley slides the phone out of his pocket and without breaking stride impassively reads the screen. He keeps on walking, right past the diner window, the phone now back in his pocket.

One dill pickle later, Castle's phone rings.

"Is that your car parked out front?" Eckley's voice is slightly disembodied; he must be on speaker phone.

"Yes."

"I'm driving to my office. Can you meet me there?"

"Of course. I'll leave–"

"Don't go yet. This is a chatty town. Just finish whatever you're eating and then come."

"Okay."

After giving Castle the directions, he adds, "Would you park behind the building in the shingled garage, please? I'll leave my car on the street. Your Ferrari is probably the most exciting thing that's happened around here all year. Better if people don't see it at my place."

"Got it. Thanks."

Anxious as he is to find out what happened with Beckett, he knows that's it's wise to take a little more time. He dawdles over a slice of lemon meringue pie, and it's more than half an hour before he noses his car into Eckley's garage and pulls down the door to hide it from view. As he approaches the small building, he sees the lawyer waiting just inside the back door, which is ajar.

"Didn't mean to go all cloak-and-dagger on you, Mister Castle," he says, shaking his hand while ushering him in.

"Rick. And I'm a big fan of cloak-and-dagger."

"It's good to meet you, Rick. Make yourself at home. May I get you a cup of coffee? Beer?"

"Coffee with milk, please," he says, walking into a room that looks more like a den than a law office. "I've been up for a long time." He's so exhausted that he wants to plop down on the inviting, worn leather sofa and go to sleep, but he can't. While Eckley is making coffee he indulges himself in his favorite form of character assessment by checking out the bookshelves. It doesn't work well here since almost everything is related to the law–until an uneven line of volumes draws his eye to the bottom shelf, a few inches above the floor. He leans over and squints in the dim light. Son of a–there's a tattered bunch of Raymond Chandlers and Ross Macdonalds, a few Walter Mosleys, and his very own _Heat Wave_. He pulls it out with his index finger and flips it open. It's definitely been read, more than once.

"Oh. You found it." Eckley looks a little embarrassed as he passes Castle a mug.

"You've got good taste," Castle replies, straightening up. "I'm referring to the other books, of course, not mine."

"Oh, you can definitely include yours. I loved it. I usually read hard-boiled, but that one really appealed to me. Steve gave it to me for my birthday. Didn't tell me until this morning that you're his client." He fidgets, and looks about eighteen. "I know you've written more, but I don't have much time to read yet, getting my practice started and everything."

"Thanks." Now he really does drop onto the sofa, though he's suddenly wide awake. "You know that she, uh, Nikki." He looks a question.

"Nikki?"

"Yeah."

"What about her?"

"She's Beckett. I mean, based on. Inspired by."

Eckley's mug stops halfway to his mouth, which has fallen open in obvious astonishment. "Kate Beckett is Nikki Heat? Wow. Does that mean you're Rook? So you two are?"

Castle waves his hand. "No. No. We definitely aren't. I observed her on the job, then worked with her and her team at the precinct, but I stopped in March. We're not–we're not a couple."

"You finished the series, then?" There's regret in his voice. "Sorry to hear that. I was kind of hoping for a lot."

Castle can't suppress a rueful smile. "I'm partway through the last book. I'm a little stuck at the moment, but when it's done I'll move on to something else." And someone else. He really needs to move on to someone else, that's the hell of it.

"So, Rick. I know that you'd like to hear about my meeting with Kate."

"Only as much as you can tell me. Did she co-operate? I mean, was she willing to work with you? I'm hoping she was, since you were there for a while."

"She is." Eckley runs his hand over his jaw. "Since you know her well I think can say that she's a little bit of a hard nut to crack."

"Macadamia."

"Sorry?"

"A macadamia nut is easier to crack than Beckett."

That gets him a chuckle. "Okay. Well, in fact, I can tell you quite a lot. She gave me permission to share quite a lot with you."

"Really?"

"Really. Including that under no circumstances are you paying my bill."

"Ouch. Fine."

"Don't worry. I'm not a big-city, five-hundred-dollar-an-hour guy."

If he'd given it any thought he'd have realized that she'd never let him pick up the legal tab. "Anything else? Something that might make me any happier about the position she's in?" Not to mention the condition she's in, which he's not going to discuss. The sickening vision of the bucket of empty bottles by the sink rises up again.

"Definitely. If I'm right, and I think I am, I can get her off. Nothing on her record."

"Are you kidding?"

"No. I'll do this as quickly as I can. Being drunk in public here is not a crime, neither is being disorderly, but it is a violation. She gave the arresting officer some lip, but fortunately nothing major."

"But what about the assault charge?"

"That's where some luck comes in. As you know, she maintains that she was defending herself."

"I believe her."

"So do I."

"You saw the bruises on her arm, right? They're practically a perfect impression of a man's hand, and they're very recent. I took pictures of them on my phone."

"Good. That's good. I had Officer Carson do the same. Officially. For the record." Eckley takes another sip of coffee. "That's important, but it's not the luck I referred to. The luck is that I know Todd Fredericks."

"How does that help?"

Eckley turns his head to the side and points to the bridge of his nose. "See this? The bump? Todd's responsible for that. We were on the same high-school football team and he was basically a thug even at sixteen. Totally reckless in practice, and he took me down. Broke my nose and chipped my tooth. Coach benched him for two weeks."

"I don't see how that's relevant to Beckett's case, though. Is it?"

"Well, unofficially it's the beginning of a pattern of anger management. Lack thereof. But what's really important is that I know his ex girlfriend."

Oh, this may be good. "I sense a story coming. I love stories."

"He beat the bejeezus out of her, repeatedly. And finally he did it one time too many, and she had the gumption to come to me. I got a restraining order against him, and that's a matter of record. What isn't is the settlement she got."

"So, not in court?"

Eckley shakes his head. "Absolutely not. You said on the phone that you'd never been to Berryville before, but I'm sure you can intuit what people here cherish."

"I think so. I'd guess football, for one? I saw the huge illuminated sign when I drove by the high school."

"Bingo."

"My gut also tells me that the old-boy network is still thriving?"

"It is. So you've found two things that have made Todd invincible around here. He was the captain of the football team when we won the state championship. That was thirteen years ago, but there hasn't been a title since, so he's still golden. Even though he's an ass and a bully and everyone knows it."

"But you're about to drop a shoe, right?"

"I am. The girlfriend. Also local and very popular. They were engaged, and what she was doing with him I'll never understand. Anyway, what people don't know–and I'm not legally restrained from telling you–is this. The final beating? She was eight weeks pregnant, and lost the baby as a direct result of what he did to her."

His stomach lurches. "Oh, God."

"She didn't want to be in open court, and I don't blame her, for all kinds of reasons. In a different place, maybe, but not here. My own animus came into play, and under the circumstances, I don't mind admitting it. I wanted to get the son of a bitch the only way I could, which was financially. And financially, she has him by the short and curlies."

"I'm not sure Beckett could beat him in court either. Big-city woman. Drunk in a bar by herself."

"Exactly. But we can beat him out of court."

"How's that?"

"One," Eckley says, holding up the index finger of his right hand. "I will talk to him with or without his lawyer there. His choice. And I will bring up the girlfriend." His middle finger goes up next to its neighbor. "Two, I tell him she's a cop. That'll put the fear of God in him. He'll drop the assault charge. And three"–his ring finger joins the others–"there's personal pride. What jock, even a past-his-glory-days one like him, wants to have a woman get the better of him physically? He won't want anyone to know."

Castle sighs. He'd been briefly hopeful, but the air has gone out of him. "There's a problem."

"There is?"

"She's not a cop. Believe it or not, I found out just today, but not from her. I doubt that she knows that I know. Anyway, she quit the force in May and came up here. I have no idea what her longterm plan is, but she's not with the NYPD anymore."

" 's okay. She told me that she resigned. The thing is, Todd doesn't have to know that. Because here's what I'm going to say to him: 'My client is the youngest person in the history of the New York Police Department to make detective. Are you aware of the penalties for assaulting a police officer?' If he wants to conclude that she's still on the force, fine."

And just like that, hope returns. "You know what, Tim? You're going to excel in a big-city law firm. You're a devious thinker."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It is."

They chat companionably for a few minutes before Castle brings the conversation back to Beckett. "Two more things. First, she can post bail now, can't she?"

"Sure."

"I'd like to guarantee it, if there's any question."

"I think she can probably manage it, but if there's a problem, I'll let her know."

"The second thing is, um. She's being arraigned tomorrow morning, right?"

"Right."

"This is a delicate issue, at least for me. But she–. I don't know what her blood alcohol level was when she was brought in, but she has to clean up. Take a shower, wash her hair, put on a blouse. Believe it or not, she was a killer dresser when she was in the city. That's important, isn't it? So she makes a good impression?"

"You're right." He looks hard at Castle. "Are you sure you're not together? Or weren't?"

"Couldn't be surer." Or sorrier. Or more depressed. He stands up. "But she deserves the best. Thanks for everything, Tim. I'm going to check in to that Holiday Inn I passed on the way here. I'll spend the night, stick around until tomorrow to make sure that you got the assault charge dropped, if that's okay."

"Of course. I'll text you if you like."

"I'd appreciate it."

After checking in to the motel, he turns up the A/C, takes a hot shower, and goes to bed. He can't remember ever having been this tired, even when working around the clock on a case, even when Alexis was teething. When he wakes up it's pitch dark, almost 10, so pulls his clothes back on, drives to a fast-food place and eats in his car. As soon as he returns to his room, he goes back to bed, and the next time he opens his eyes it's When he wake again, it's eight o'clock. An hour and a half later his phone chirps with a text from Tim.

"Assault charge was dropped. She got a fine for the D&D, no record. I offered to take her to breakfast but she said she wants to go home."

He answers so quickly that he doesn't care if there are typos. "Can't thankyou enough. She all rift?"

"She's fine. I'm waiting for her to sign a paper and then I'll drive her to her cabin."

"OK. Thanks again. More than you know."

"My pleasure."

He goes to the parking lot and gets in his car. He feels rudderless, as if he has no direction. He's lost. He doesn't know what or how to feel. "I need coffee," he tells his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Coffee. Shit. He almost bursts into tears as Beckett had done yesterday. Only yesterday? It feels like a century ago. He turns out onto the road, neither knowing nor caring whether he goes to the Hamptons or to the city. The one place he won't go is her cabin. He's done. He'll stop at the Dunkin' Donuts, pray that Carol Ann no E is there, and then decide what to do with his life. He'll leave Beckett to hers.

It's not often that seeing a woman in late middle age cleaning a counter top with Windex makes the heart sing, but his does. It's his guardian angel, hard at work, the only one in the shop now that rush hour is over. He'd ask her to sit down with him, invite her to have coffee and a glazed with him, but he's sure it's against company policy. Instead, he drinks his coffee standing up, his elbow on top of the display case, and chats with her. He fleetingly wonders if he should dedicate his book to her. Assuming he ever finishes it.

"I'll take another for the road, please," he says, settling his bill.

"You heading home?"

"I am."

"That's New York, right? I read an article about you once."

"Probably all lies," he said. "But I do live in New York."

"Stop by if you're ever up this way again. Can't think why you would be, though."

"You never know, Carol Ann no E. I might surprise you."

"Good. I like surprises."

"Really? Me, too."

Once he's on the highway he plays the radio as loudly as he can bear it. He wants to be rendered senseless for a while, and that might do it. Twenty miles outside Manhattan traffic slows with typical summer Sunday congestion. And then he sees it, an enormous billboard. There's a graphic photo of a crumpled car; no one could have survived that crash. Underneath it, in stark red letters at least six feet high, is a message: FRIENDS DON'T LET FRIENDS DRINK AND DRIVE. He's seen it hundreds of times, but it never hit him as it did now.

The next exit is only a mile ahead. He takes it, and turns north, headed back to the place he'd sworn he'd put behind him.

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you again, all you wonderful readers, especially the guests whom I can't thank.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Castle tries not to think of Beckett as he drives to Berryville. He knows that he should, that he should be formulating some kind of plan, how to approach her, what to say or ask or beseech, how to act and react, how to temper his anger and hers, what to expect. But for the moment–say, the next 20 miles–he'd like to think of something happy. There's a large shopping mall just ahead, and he spies Barnes & Noble's green-and-white illuminated sign. This is a come-on he'll answer. There are few mood elevators to rival a bookstore, and he already knows what section he'll aim for once he's inside.

 _Frozen Heat_ is not yet available in paperback, and he assumes that Carol Ann no E is waiting for the cheaper version before she reads it. When he finds the proper shelf, he makes sure that he picks out a pristine hardback, not one that's been pawed over by shoppers who have dipped in for a few pages. He carries the copy to the checkout. The man at the register doesn't appear to have looked at the author's photo on the back of the jacket, and probably wouldn't have noticed the name on his credit card, but he might have, and right now Richard Castle craves anonymity, so he pays cash.

Back in the safety (and anonymity) of his car, he removes a pen from his glove compartment and writes a long inscription on the title page of _Frozen Heat_ to the woman he mentally refers to as the Blessed Angel of Dunkin' Donuts. He's about to cap the pen when he changes his mind: maybe he's nuts, but he wants to add a P.S. "This is my cell number. Call me if you ever have too much time on your hands, or just want to chat." When he reaches the now familiar doughnuttery, he's thrilled to see that Carol Ann no E is still on duty, though it depresses him that a woman her age should have to be on her feet so many hours a day. She's a good reminder of how hard millions of people who should be enjoying retirement have to work just to keep from going under.

"Here I am again," he announces cheerfully over the faintly tinkling bell on the door. "The bad penny."

"Nah," she says, "you're good news."

"Tell that to a woman I know in Berryville."

She fixes him with her wide gray eyes and shakes her head. "Shoulda figured it was a woman who lured you up here. But you? Woman trouble? Don't believe it."

"Believe it."

"Anyone I know? I know most people in Berryville."

"She's not a local. Just visiting. I think. For the summer."

This time she looks at him for a long time before commenting. "Berryville's not exactly a tourist spot, Rick."

"Yeah, well. She's not much of a one for sightseeing. Keeps to herself mostly."

"Uh huh."

It's a good thing Carol Ann no E isn't his mother. He's pretty sure that he couldn't keep any secrets from her, and he's probably said too much already. "I didn't stop by to complain. You said that you like surprises, so"–he swings the Barnes & Noble bag onto the counter–"surprise!"

"For me?"

He makes a show of looking all around the shop. "No one else in here."

Shyly–and he imagines that it takes a lot to make her shy–she opens the bag and peeks in. "Ohhh," she says, drawing out the book and running her hand across the black-and-blue cover. "Thank you. I don't have this one."

"Good." He's about to point out that he signed it for her, but doesn't want to embarrass her. Besides, he hopes that she'll enjoy finding the note on her own. "And you're welcome. Could I ask you something?"

"You just bought me a book, so I can't say no."

"Is there a fancy deli anywhere around here? Where I could get really great stuff for a picnic?"

"You mean one with ten kinds of bread all with seeds and whole grains, and mustard that's not in a squeeze bottle, and weird cheese I never heard of? The sorta place where I'd buy my lunch meat if I won the lotto?"

"You read my mind," he says after he stops laughing.

"Yeah. In Peterson, about ten miles east. People from the city fixed up the houses so it's a rich town now. The deli's called Ham on Wry."

"Lemme guess. Not spelled r-y-e?"

"You got it. The ham's probably from an Italian pig or something." She pauses again. "This picnic wouldn't be for your lady friend, by any chance?"

"It would."

"Hope it works."

"Me, too. Hey, you know what? I'm going to take a pound of your coffee. She might like that." Might sober her up, too. He'd love to confide in Carol Ann no E about Beckett's drinking, but he can't, even though he'd bet on her having good advice.

It's almost 2:00 when he turns off for Berryville. Ham on Wry was just what he'd been hoping for, and the back seat is loaded with sandwiches, a baguette, some cheese, chips, potato salad, salted almonds, berries, cookies, and bottled water. What he really wants to deliver to her cabin is food for a week–a roast chicken, pasta, eggs, green vegetables, lettuce, tomatoes, bread, melon, peaches, pie–but he'll count himself lucky if he can persuade her to eat lunch with him. He'll count himself lucky if he can eat at all, because anxiety has his stomach in knots.

He spots her motorcycle first thing, parked to the side of the cabin. Tim must have taken her to get it. What a good guy. Castle cuts the motor and is reaching behind him for the food when he hears the screen door open. There she is. Pale and scrawny, but looking much better than she had in the precinct. She's barefoot, wearing a clean white tee shirt and very short cutoffs. Jesus, her legs. They should be insured. He's never seen her in shorts and they're doing dangerous things to him. Why couldn't she be wearing something less revealing, like armor? Or at least full-length jeans?

"Castle?" What the hell? She steps out on to the porch.

"Hi, Beckett." So far, so good. He doesn't smell alcohol, at least not from here. And she opened the door. That's got to be something, doesn't it?

"How did you know where I am?"

That he hadn't expected. Maybe "why are you here?" but not that. He doesn't want to out Lanie, and he's grateful that he can fib credibly. Regardless of what he's told Alexis her entire life, honesty is not always best. "Tim," he says. "Eckley."

Of course, the lawyer. Shit. "Oh."

They're at a standoff or a cross roads or something, and they're looking awkwardly at each other. "Brought a picnic," he says at last, holding the two shopping bags up to his chest.

She wants him here, doesn't want him here, doesn't know what to say. Her mouth is dry. "Gonna rain."

Is she avoiding him? Could be, but she's probably right. He'd noticed black clouds stacking up in the west when he'd left the deli. It's very hot, and uncomfortably humid. Unless the uncomfortable part is just what's between them, what's not said, an encyclopedia of things not said. "Right. Well. Um, maybe we could sit on your porch? And eat?"

The porch is as far as he's coming. No way she's letting him inside. Luckily she'd dragged two chairs out here. She wants him to stay, she wants him to leave. "Are you hungry?" What an idiotic question. The man is always hungry.

"Can't you tell by the amount of food I brought?"

"I guess." She scratches her forearm nervously. "I'll go get plates."

"Want help?"

"No," she answers, already on the other side of the door. He has her so rattled that she can only barely remember where the plates are, not to mention cutlery. Do they need forks and knives? Does she have a bread knife? She saw a loaf sticking out of one of the bags. She yanks open a drawer, and then another, and then the last. No bread knife. They'll have to pull the baguette apart. There are no paper napkins, either, so they'll have to make do with paper towels. As least she has those. Oh, fuck, the empties. She shoves the bucket back under the sink. And her drink! She'd gone to another town after Tim had gotten her motorcycle for her, and restocked. She'd had about half a drink when Castle roared up, and now she tosses the remains of it down the drain, and leaves the glass in the sink. She's sharply aware of how awful she looked and smelled when he saw her at the police station. Doesn't want him thinking she's some kind of drunk.

What's taking her so long? He hears noises but stays on the porch, and doesn't dare look through the door.

"Here," she says a few moments later, pushing open the screen door with her butt. She has plates in one hand, cutlery and paper towels in the other. "Sorry, no napkins."

"Don't really need 'em. Okay if I just put everything out here on the floor?"

"Sure. Yeah."

"I mean, I'll put stuff on plates, but the rest–"

"It's fine, Castle."

"Do you want the turkey sandwich with honey mustard, or the prosciutto and tomato, or the egg salad with dill?"

"Any. But only half of one."

He loads her plate with potato salad, a chunk of Brie, and half the fanciest sandwich–the prosciutto–and hands it to her.

"This is too much." It's all too much. She doesn't know what to do or say. "All this. Thank you, but I can't eat this much."

"Give it your best shot," he says, sitting on one of the chairs with a plate that holds at least twice as much as hers. "Want something to drink?"

She almost chokes. Oh, mother of God yes. She wants something to drink, needs something to drink, is nearly quivering at the prospect. But water. He means water.

"Sure."

He gets up again to fetch a bottle, condensation gathering on the outside, and comes very close to her. Booze. He can smell it. A whiff, but more than a suggestion. He has to swallow hard at the knowledge, bite back what he wants to say. She nods her thanks.

A painful and protracted silence follows, while both chew without tasting a thing. "So," she blurts. "Um, I wanted to thank you for the lawyer. Tim. He was really great. And he got that asshole Fredericks to drop the assault charge." She can't manage to look him in the eye while she's talking. "Uh, maybe you know that already. Did you talk to Tim?"

"No. He texted me, though. It's good news, but I wish the bastard could be charged for what he did to you."

Now she does look at him. "Don't think I could have won. Not around here. He's still a local hero. Football. And I'm the wicked city woman."

"Right. Tim mentioned something. About the football."

"I took the deal, Castle. I'm fine with it."

"Okay." But she's not fine with anything else, is she?

"Thanks for the lunch, too. It was nice." She has made only the slightest dent in what he'd served her, but she wipes her mouth on a paper towel and stands up. Does she want him to leave?

"Don't you want any more? I have dessert."

"Of course you do." It's sweet that he's done this, even though she doesn't know why. A goodbye gesture, maybe, now that her case is closed. She'll try to sound light. "I'm surprised you didn't bring wine and a corkscrew, too, Castle, with all this fancy stuff."

It's 92 degrees, but he feels ice run down his back. If he weren't convinced that she'd been drinking when he arrived, he'd have let her comment pass. If he hadn't still been angry at her, despite his warring feelings, he'd have let it pass. If she hadn't been through five years of hell when her father was living in a bottle, he'd have let it pass. But that was the game changer: her father's alcoholism. And so he couldn't let it pass.

"Maybe before, but not now." He's tried not to sound furious; he hopes that his tone was even.

If it were possible for air to break, the oxygen and nitrogen and carbon dioxide and argon that surround them would shatter into little pieces. He can almost hear her vertebrae lock into place as she stops in mid-step on the uneven boards of the uneven porch. Under other circumstances he might have made a joke about the floor sloping tipsily. "What?"

That sends another cascade of ice down his back. "I think you know what I said."

"I know what you said. But what that's supposed to mean, 'Maybe before, but not now'?"

This is one of the hardest things that he has ever done. He stands up so that he's only a few feet away from her, and forces himself to look at her beautiful, anguished face. She's even more stunning without makeup than with, except that her cheekbones are too sharp, her eyes too deep, her jaw set like a trap that has snapped shut. "I meant that you shouldn't be drinking."

"Why not, Castle? When did you become the arbiter of alcohol? You're seriously telling me not to drink?"

"Drinking just got you into a hell of a lot of trouble."

"Oh, and it's never gotten you into trouble? At least I didn't get arrested for something stupid like riding a horse naked in Central Park. At least I got arrested for defending myself against the son of a bitch who was going to rape me." She smacks her palm hard against her chest.

That image is something he can't bear to live with, and her evocation of it shuts him down for a long, excruciating minute. "I mean that I think alcohol is getting you into trouble of another kind. I mean that I think you've been living on alcohol for weeks, months."

Her hands are fists, and she's shaking. "You haven't seen me in months. Haven't talked to me. Wouldn't answer my calls or emails. So why would you care? How would you know? How would you? I could have been living on water all this time."

"But I do know. I took one look at you yesterday morning and knew. I looked in your empty refrigerator and your bucketful of empty bottles and knew."

"You've been inside? You've been in my _house_?"

He plows on towards whatever abyss is ahead. She's forcing him to say it. "I look at you now and I know, Beckett. And if I went inside, if I opened the door and went into the kitchen, I could prove it. Couldn't I? There's a new bottle there, and you've already opened it. You may be sober now, but only because I showed up and you had to put your drink down. I know."

He stops. He has nothing else to say, but from somewhere inside, some place that he'd locked down in March, comes the urge to keep going. In that instant, he hears Ryan on the phone yesterday, telling him the story about Cole Maddox throwing Beckett off the roof. "She kept calling your name, Castle. She thought you were there, that you'd save her. And when I was the one who pulled her up, she looked like she wished she'd died." That's what had made him sick to his stomach yesterday. She'd called his name. And so he says something else, after all. "I know you're drowning yourself, Kate. And God help me, because I wish I didn't, it would be so much easier if I didn't, but I care."

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** Because of the recent, protracted problems at the FF site, many people weren't aware that I posted a new chapter of this story on Saturday, February 10th. If you're one of them and missed chapter 6, please read it or you'll find this one confusing!

It's rare that something, someone, is simultaneously glacial and scalding hot, but that's what he is, and if he's any judge, so is she. That's what the air is, too, the emotional atmosphere around them, and it reminds him of thunder snow. The white heat of lightning lancing the cold.

He's said his piece, but he's at a loss about what to do next. It's up to her. She's what's next.

"You broke into my house," she says.

That's what she's landed on? Not the drinking? Not that he cares about her?

"You broke into my goddamn house, Castle."

That's the second time, and he doesn't want to hear a third. "The door was unlocked when I got here yesterday, and the front window was wide open. I didn't break in." Dammit, in just seconds she's pushed him into a corner he hates, and he's retaliating with some idiotic technical defense.

Her voice is at a normal level, but so sharp that it could cut a hole in titanium. "If I'd been here and shot you dead, I'd have been within my rights."

"But you weren't here, Beckett. You were in jail." Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why is he so stupid, letting her get to him? Then he says something stupider. "Do you even have a gun anymore?"

She's so ashen that she looks almost dead, but he's never seen her eyes this dark or this alive. She blinks hard and rapidly before she speaks, in an almost inaudible rage. "Why wouldn't I have a gun? Tell me. Why wouldn't I?"

So much for his resolve to rein things in, to be cautious. But doesn't she get it? He has no choice now but to tell the truth, or at least part of it, and he sighs. "Because you quit the force."

"Says who?"

He has to hand it to her, in an odd way: she's putting up a good front. "I may not be at the Twelfth anymore, but I still hear things."

"From who, your buddy the mayor?"

Let his buddy Robert Weldon take the fall, instead of Ryan. The mayor won't mind. He'll never even have to find out. Castle's not going to respond to her question, so she can draw her own conclusion, incorrect though it may be. And why isn't she addressing what he's said about her drinking, which is the real issue–the significant one, anyway? Because it's too hard? Of course it's hard.

"What was I, some little thing to gossip about at the poker table?"

That stings, and it's one assumption that he won't let her make. "No," he says, shaking his head for emphasis. "Never. Never that." He wishes that he'd paid more attention to his mother's breathing exercises; he could use them now. At least he can take another tack and try to guide this conversation–confrontation, whatever the hell it is–where it should be. "When I saw you in the police station on Sunday, you asked me why I'd come. Do you remember?"

"Of course I do. There's nothing wrong with my memory."

He suppresses the urge to ask her why she apparently has no memory of her father's five years of drunkenness. "I want to ask you the same question. Why did you come here? To this–" he waves his arm around. "This place, this cabin, this town that has some very nice people but also some who, uh, who treat women unconscionably."

She folds her arms around herself, probably unconsciously; it's a self-protective gesture. "I didn't know there are people who treat women unconscionably."

"That's true, but it's not really the point."

Radiating defiance, she counters, "Then why did you bring it up? If it's not the point."

This is a battle, and she's good at it–especially at deflection–but he's not ceding ground. "Maybe I should have expressed myself more clearly. The point is, why did you leave New York, a city you adore, and come to a place with little of what means a lot to you."

"For clean air. To be on my own."

He can still read her, at least sometimes, like now, and he doesn't buy it for an instant. "Is this you recreating some Thoreauvian ideal, living with nature, alone? Your version of Walden Pond or something? Because Thoreau sure as hell didn't anesthetize himself with bourbon and wine and whatever else you've been using to dull your senses for the last couple of months."

Her hands are fists at her side now. "You have no concept of what means a lot to me. We haven't seen each other in four months. Things change."

She's deflecting again, not meeting his challenge about the drinking.

"They don't change that much. Your job meant a lot to you. I've never known anyone as invested in a job as you, and you threw it away."

"Well, so did you," she fires back.

What? She can't possibly know about his writer's slump, which has become more like an unstoppable grim slide. "I'm still writing," he protests. So what if it's a lie? All's fair in lo–. Shit. All's fair in war.

"Your _job_ , Castle. Your job at the Twelfth that got you writing again, kept you writing. Or maybe that's all we were to you–Ryan and Espo and me–a throwaway job. So you threw us all away one day, with no explanation."

"I did explain."

"News to me."

"I did. To Ryan."

"What? When?"

He'd wanted to keep Ryan out of it, but he can't. Not completely. "He called me in April, left me a voicemail about how I should come in because there was a new case that was right up my alley. Literally in an alley. Some zombie thing. And I texted him." He won't tell her what it was, because he's ashamed at how little he'd written: "Thanks, Kevin, but I'm done." Ryan deserved more, but she didn't. Not after what she'd said to the kid in interrogation about remembering her shooting. Not after she'd lied to him for months.

"You explained in your text? He never told me that." She'd been standing in the same place for minutes, however long they've been at this, but she's swaying a little now. "It must have been a crappy explanation, because he wouldn't forget to tell me." She looks as if she feels betrayed, and she glances sideways at the trees, or maybe at nothing. "He wouldn't do that. None of us knew why you left. None of us." She closes her eyes, turns, and takes a few steps to the door. "I haven't slept in two nights. I'm going to bed."

Because her back is to him, he can't read her face, but her body language and her tone tell him a lot. Her head is bowed; her shoulders are sagging; her hands are open and limp; her voice is flat. It's as if she's deflated and defeated, but he can't believe the fight is over, neither hers nor his. He watches her open the screen door and turn right towards her bedroom. He knows there is one, because he'd seen it yesterday when he'd hung out here for hours, waiting to hear from Tim Eckley. He hadn't gone in, but he'd noticed the old-fashioned double bed covered with a faded patchwork quilt. Has she ever dreamed of him when she slept under that quilt? The way he still dreams of her under his? He pushes the memory away.

He waits for the click of the bedroom door closing, but stays on the porch. The little cabin is a summer place; it has no insulation and the walls are only a board thick. And so it is that just a minute or so later, her crying, though muffled, reaches his ears. She must be aware that he's still here, his car is still here, but she must also believe that he can't hear her. Something in him makes him want to open her door, something else in him refuses. After a while he picks up the plates and all the leftover food and tiptoes into the kitchen. He finds a roll of plastic wrap, covers the food that needs it, and puts everything in the refrigerator.

It's impossible for him to silence the Ferrari's engine, but he drives away slowly, until the odometer says that he's gone a mile. He picks up speed then, and heads for New York. He's going home to get some clothes and make a plan. He'll drive up again in the morning–in his SUV, which is less flashy and better equipped for country roads–and get a room at the motel. He's not leaving her behind. He'll be back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after. As long as it takes to get her to listen to reason. Regardless of what he told Ryan last April, he's not done. Not done with Beckett.

xxxxxx

She'd fallen asleep on her stomach, and when she wakes up she's disoriented. Her head feels both heavy and light, and when she raises it just enough to peek out the window, she sees that the sun is low in the sky. She rolls onto her side, and reaches for her phone on the makeshift nightstand. It's just after 8:00; she must have been out for hours. Slipping the phone into her back pocket, she creeps across the floor and quietly opens the door onto the rest of the cabin interior. Castle's not there. She walks out to the porch: his car is gone, and so is the picnic. With a shiver, she goes back to the kitchen and finds the sink empty and dry. He must have washed the dishes. A quick look in the fridge confirms it: all the food has been neatly put away. Damn him, he's been in here again, even after what she'd said. If she turned around right now and saw him cross the threshold, would she shoot him?

"Do you even have a gun anymore?"

That's what he'd asked her, even though he knew the answer.

"Do you even have a gun anymore?"

"Do you even have a gun anymore?"

"Do you even have a gun anymore?"

The question ricochets inside her head like a bullet.

No. Yes. No. Yes. She does have a gun–not her NYPD issue because she turned that in along with her badge, but her own back-up piece. Except it's not literally a back-up any more; it's her only weapon. She's licensed and it's licensed. The Glock is locked up in her safe. She should probably have brought it up here, but she'd left so precipitously that she hadn't even considered it.

She can't think about what else Castle said. It went straight through her brain and settled in the bottom of her stomach. It's festering there, and she has to quiet it. She grabs a glass from the shelf and pours herself some bourbon. She feels weak, and a good, strong drink will help. She takes it onto the porch, where she likes to sit in the evening, except tonight: she's unsettled, she feels Castle next to her, the ghost of him. He's crowding her, stealing the breath from her, so she dashes to the living room and drops onto the sofa. It's dark, but she leaves the lights off. She likes the dark. It's a good place to hide.

Castle got her a lawyer. He brought her a picnic. He was so kind. But then he yelled at her, fought with her, accused her of–. And while she was sleeping, he'd left. He'd left in March, too. She rubs her temple, which does nothing to ease the pain. When he'd left before she'd tried everything to find out why, sent him text after text, left voicemails, had even written a letter that he'd ignored. Probably tossed it. Why had he left? When he was here today he said that last spring he'd told Ryan why he'd left. Explained it, he said. Explained why he'd left.

She needs another drink to be able to do what she has to do, so she refills her glass. After she's polished off most of it, she pulls the phone from her pocket. She's hardly used it here, at least not for calls. The only person she calls is her Dad, a couple of times a week, in the morning. She feels best in the morning.

She pulls up her contact list, finds who she's looking for, and presses the number.

"Beckett?"

"Hi, Ryan."

"What a surprise. How are you?"

"Good. I'm good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"It's nice to hear your voice, Beckett."

"Yours too." It feels so awkward between them, but she has to know. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Sure. Whatever you need."

"It's. Um. You remember last spring, the zombie case? When I asked you to call Castle to get him to come in? He texted you, right?"

"Yeah."

"What did he say, exactly?"

He waits a little too long before answering, and she's sure that he's hedging. He's a fine detective, but he can never fool her. "Man, that was ages ago. I don't have perfect recall like you."

"Kev? Don't worry about my feelings. Just tell me what he said."

There's another silence, until he finally sighs. "It wasn't bad. It was just short. He said, 'Thanks, but I'm done'."

The phone slips out of her hand and lands noisily on the wooden floor, and she scrambles to get it. "Sorry, sorry. Dropped the phone. Butterfingers. That was it? 'Thanks, but I'm done'?"

"Yeah, that was it. Listen, Beckett, you sure you're all right?"

"Fine, I'm fine. Thanks. Gotta go. Give my love to Jenny, okay?"

"I will."

"Bye, Ryan."

She's not fine, she's furious. But she needs a shot of courage, of nerve–something she never lacked in the past–to act on it. A drink will help. It takes the edge off but it gives her an edge. Weird. She sips her drink, then swipes her fingertip on the outside of the glass to catch a drop before it's wasted. The bourbon's not wasted and she's not wasted. She's just wired. That's good, that's what she'd wanted. Huh. Wired is an anagram for weird. She'd never noticed until now.

For the second time tonight, she takes her phone out of her pocket and makes a call. It rings so long that she's afraid it will go to voicemail.

"Ka–.Beckett?"

"I'm amazed you still recognize my number. Lucky you did so I didn't have to explain who was calling. I could've though. I'm good at explaining. Unlike you."

"I–"

She doesn't let him break in. "You're a writer, Castle. You can do anything with words. So how can you claim that 'Thanks, but I'm done' is an explanation for anything? What does it even mean? You left, Castle. You fucking disappeared." Her voice cracks on the last word. She can't break.

"You want an explanation?"

"I called you, didn't I? At whatever time it is."

"Five minutes past midnight."

"Okay, okay. Five minutes past midnight."

"Here's my explanation, Beckett. It's shorter than the one I gave Ryan, but even in your state you should be able to understand it. You lied. I left because you lied."

 **A/N** Thank you so much for your support on this tough story.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

What's he talking about, she lied? And that "even in her state" she could understand? She doesn't understand any of it.

"The state I'm in? The only state I'm in is being seriously pissed off. And when exactly did I lie to you, huh? It must have been one hell of a lie if it made you take off and never look back, Castle. Fill me in. What lie?"

She can hear him breathing hard through his nose, which is never good. She's only seen him like that a couple of times, and she can't actually see him now, so the only clues and cues that she's going to get are from his tone of voice. Or his breath.

"You're saying you don't remember lying? Is it because you told the lie so often that it entered your bloodstream and became part of you, so that it turned into truth? Or is it because your bloodstream is so full of something else at the moment that it compromises your memory? That's the state you're in. You're–"

She cuts him off. She doesn't want to hear any more crap about her bloodstream or her memory or the state she's in. "Just tell me what I said. Tell me how I lied to you." He's still breathing heavily; impossible though it is, it feels hot against her ear. And then he sighs, expelling air so angrily that it sounds loud even to her.

"You told me you remembered nothing about your shooting. That's what you told me. Me. The person who was there, the person who held you and saw the blood all over your white gloves. Who watched your blood run out onto the grass, who saw you close your eyes. I thought you were dead. I was holding you, Kate. Your face was inches from mine. But afterwards?"

His voice changes on "afterwards." It had dipped into sadness when he'd talked about her gloves, and the grass, but now he pauses and when he starts up again he's in a fury.

"You told me you didn't remember anything. And then in March you interrogated that little scumbag Bobby Lopez about the bombing case. He claimed he didn't remember anything, either. Just like you. He said it was all a blank, because of the trauma. And you tore him a new one. Remember? Remember? Because I do. You said, 'You want to know trauma? I was shot in the chest and I remember every second of it.' You told him, but you didn't tell me. Wouldn't. You wouldn't tell me. And you want to know what that felt like? Like I got stabbed in the chest."

She doubles over. Her heart folds in on itself. She'd forgotten all about that until now. He'd heard that? He'd been on the other side of the window? Jesus. Her lungs aren't working right. Something's in her throat. She can't get anything out. She'd shut her eyes, but she wills herself to open them. She's looking at the floor. All she can see is grain and parallel lines of the planks. What kind of wood is it? Pine. It's pine. She's pining now. Pining for a time before all this. Before all this fucking mess. She makes herself sit up.

"Castle," she finally says.

There's silence. Has he hung up? "Castle? I–"

"If you're about to come up with some lame excuse, Beckett, I don't want to hear it. At least not now. You said the state you're in is seriously pissed off? Mine's a lot worse than that. And the state you're in is drunk. I don't want to try to talk to you while you're drunk. Night."

No. No. No, no, no, no. He doesn't get to do that. She wants to explain. It's not lame, it's real. And she isn't drunk. He doesn't get to call her drunk and then stop the conversation. She jabs her finger to redial. Son of a bitch, it's voicemail. He's either ignoring her or he's turned off the phone. Fine. She's not giving him the satisfaction of leaving a message. She'll call him back in the morning, however many times it takes to get him to answer. He's not shutting her out again the way he did in March. And she isn't drunk. If she were drunk she wouldn't be coherent. If she were drunk she'd be lying facedown in her own vomit the way her father used to do. It's a miracle he didn't drown. She's not drowning and she's not drunk. To prove it, she pours herself a nightcap and takes it to bed. It will quiet her mind and her heart. "See this, Castle?" she says, holding the glass in one hand and putting the other one out in front of her, arm straight. "Solid as a rock. See any shaking? No. Because I'm not drunk. If you were here, if you hadn't left, you'd see it." She drains the glass, turns off the light, and pulls the covers over her head.

His late-night talk with Beckett had left him unsettled and sleep had been a long time coming. Even then, it had been restless. He'd dragged himself out of bed and taken a long shower, alternating hot and cold spray in the hope of clearing his head, and shaved with a towel wrapped around his waist. He hadn't liked what he'd seen in the mirror, the red eyes, the puffy face.

Sipping a double-strength cup of coffee, he looks out the window at people in the street. It's so seldom that he's in Manhattan in the summer that he'd almost forgotten how enervating it can be. It's only a little after 10, but already everyone is moving slowly, as if the asphalt were melting and making walking difficult. He sees only one person–maybe sixteen–who's not. A sandy-haired kid with a buzz cut is tearing down the sidewalk, shoulder bag in hand. The strap is hanging almost to the ground; it probably broke when the boy snatched it. Castle cranes his neck; the little thief must be heading for the subway a couple of blocks away. Even if he were outside now, at street level, he couldn't catch him. Beckett could, though, even in 4-inch heels. She'd get him by the collar or the elbow, cuff him in one move.

His head drops involuntarily, and he swipes his hair off his forehead. Beckett. He's so angry at her. So desperate to know why she lied to him. So desperate to know why she's drinking. So desperately in love with her. That's the hell of it, the all-consuming hell.

The phone startles him. He'd turned it off before he'd showered and turned it on to speak briefly with Alexis in the Hamptons. Lying to his daughter–"I'm fine, sweetie, just tired after a late night with some friends"–hadn't sat well with him, which probably accounts for his having forgotten to turn off the phone when he'd finished. It sounds jangly, in sharp contrast to the photo of a softly smiling Beckett on the screen. He's a fool if he answers it; he's a coward if he doesn't, and he's on the fence. He waits too long: the ringing stops.

Rather than checking for a message or returning her call, he goes to his bedroom, gets a small bag from the closet and throws in underwear, socks, a couple of polo shirts, a pair of shorts, and some jeans. In the bathroom he packs his shaving gear and toiletries, and on his way through the office picks up his laptop. He's about to open the front door when he looks to his right. Of course. Coffee. He fetches a pound of beans and the miniature grinder from the kitchen, and puts them in a small canvas tote. Now he's ready. Not mentally ready, but he's not sure how to take care of that.

For the next two hours in the car he plays every dumb, distracting game he can think of: how many Best Picture Oscars can he name? Try to put the 50 states in alphabetical order. Hell, try to remember all 50 states. He keeps overlooking one–first Ohio, then Idaho. How can that be? Ohio is home to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Idaho is the home of potatoes, one of his favorite foods.

His mind drifts to food, because he'd had no breakfast. Hadn't had the stomach for it earlier, and he's regretting it now. He feels a pang as he drives past Dunkin' Donuts: he could use the triple boost of carbs, sugar, and Carol Ann no E, but he needs to get where he's going as soon as possible. It's only a few more miles, and as he makes the turn he checks his watch. It's 12:45. He might be in time. At 12:48 his tires scrunch across the gravel in front of her cabin. Leaving his bag in the car, he carries the beans and grinder with him as he walks up the porch steps. Her front door is wide open, and once he's inside he can hear the shower running. A five-second survey of the kitchen yields some important information: there's a bottle of bourbon on the counter, but no glass; the sink is empty and the coffeemaker cold. After taking a chance on her not hearing the grinder over the sound of running water, he gets a pot of top-of-the-line brew going, then removes the grapes and the remains of the baguette and Brie from the fridge. The bread is a little stale, but toasting it will do the trick. He slices it lengthwise, adds some cheese, and shoves it on the broiler rack.

"Castle? What the hell are you doing here?" She's standing in the doorway, her wet hair dripping onto the shoulders of her oversized tee shirt, the only thing she has on. Maybe panties. Please let her be wearing those.

"That's what you asked me when I came to see you in jail. But I have a different answer this time. I'm making breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"I am."

"You broke into my house again."

"Door was open again." He wraps a dishtowel around his hand, bends over, opens the broiler, and gingerly picks up the baguette. The cheese is bubbling and he drops the bread onto a plate. "I could claim that I'm retrieving my property," he says matter-of-factly. "I bought this food, so I think technically it's mine."

She's glaring at him, but at least she hasn't kicked him out yet, or thrown the toast to the floor.

"Do you want to sit on the porch? I'll bring out the coffee."

"I can get my own coffee."

"Good. Would you pour me a cup, please?"

Another glare, but eventually she stomps to the cabinet, leaving a trail of wet footprints, and fills two mugs. When she reaches the porch, she lets the screen door slam shut behind her. She's sitting, rigid, on one of the chairs when he arrives with the cheese toast and a bowl of grapes. She's seething, but she's sober. He got here in time.

"Have a piece of this," he says, offering her the plate. "You could use the protein."

She doesn't take it. "What do you want?"

"I want what I wanted last night, but I wanted you to be–." Something stops him from saying "sober." He clears his throat. "I wanted us to do this face-to-face, not on the phone. And not when we were both exhausted." He breaks off a few grapes, and pops them in his mouth, trying to assess her mood. "I told you why I left, and now I'd like you to tell me why you lied about not remembering your shooting. Because if, as you told Bobby Lopez, you remember everything, then you must remember what I said to you at the cemetery. When I thought that you were dying."

"Fine. I do. Satisfied?"

"No. Not satisfied, because you still haven't said why."

"It's a long story."

"I'm a writer. I like long stories."

He nurses his coffee while he waits for her to say something. Because her head is turned away from him, he can see only a small portion of her face. Her hair is beginning to dry, and curl. He wonders what it's like completely untamed. What she's like, completely untamed.

"I didn't. At the beginning." She's looking straight ahead now, so he has her in profile. "When you came to the hospital. And asked."

Jesus, this is excruciating, but he can't interrupt. He's waited so long. She turns away again. He can just see her swallow. She her throat move. And then she speaks again.

"I wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. I was so doped up. I hurt. I was terrified. And then I began to, after a while. But I still wasn't– you know, not completely sure. Of everything that happened. After a while I decided it was, um, maybe a dying declaration."

"A what?"

"Dying declaration, only the other way around. That you said it because you thought I was dying. But I didn't die. And you never said it again. So."

"So?"

"So I figured you hadn't really meant it, or changed your mind. So I never told you. What was the point, after all that time?"

"It didn't have to be so much time, Beckett."

That makes her snap her head around. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you worked it out over the summer, you could have called me."

"You could have called _me_."

"You told me you'd call, Beckett. What was I supposed to do?"

"Do you want a list of all the times you've done something I asked you not to?"

"Yeah, well this was different."

"Why?"

"Why? Because you were shot. Because you almost died. It was different because of what I said."

"Seems like you can't stand saying it now, Castle. You can't spit it out now. Is it because I quit my job? Because you think I'm a screw-up? Living out here?"

She's really angry and he doesn't know why he can't say it. Everything's on the line and he can't say it. After a long time he blurts out, "I'm afraid."

"I don't believe you. You're afraid of spiders, Castle. You've never been afraid of saying anything."

He wills her to look at him, hangs on until she does, and then says quietly, with palpable regret, "I'm afraid of what you're doing to yourself."

 **A/N** Thank you to everyone who's reading. I hope to be able to update more quickly now that my workload has eased a little.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She doesn't answer. She's frozen. Her eyes remain unblinking for so long that he worries. She must be apprehensive, mustn't she? About what he's going to say next? But she's mute and still, her response to his remark neither fight not flight. She'd had plenty of fight in her a moment ago. He'll have to press her a little, then, but maybe he should come at the problem obliquely. He's never done anything like this before and he's terrified of screwing it up, of having her shut him out completely but worse, of doing herself greater harm. Irreparable damage, possibly, unless someone comes and talks sense to her. And that's not likely unless he talks to someone about her. Lanie? Even then, who knows? Will she listen to anyone?

"If I were on better terms with Josh–any terms with Josh–I might ask him what to do," he says, breaking the painful silence.

That appears to confuse her, but at least she doesn't look spooked. "Why would you talk to Josh? I haven't seen him in more than a year. I don't even know where he is."

"He's a doctor."

"So?"

"He's not a psychiatrist, but he knows you and he knows your family history. I'd ask him what I could do to help you. I'm so afraid of your drinking, Kate. How you can be drinking the way you are when you went through so much with your Dad?"

If he'd reached over and slapped her with an open palm it wouldn't have had the effect that his question had. She's on her feet, a modern-day Lyssa, the Greek goddess of wrath. Her face is redder than he'd have thought possible. "My Dad, Castle? You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know what I went through with my Dad. I am nothing like him. Nothing." She strikes her fist so hard against her chest it's certain to leave a bruise. "I dragged him out of bars, picked him up from sidewalks, hauled him into cabs. I wiped blood and snot off him. He threw up on my shoes. He cried. He was incoherent except when he was talking about my mother, and I don't know which was worse. I am nothing like my Dad. Nothing. He was a drunk. Is. Recovering alcoholics are still drunks. They're one drink away from an endless fucking disaster."

She pivots and runs. He hears her feet on the floor until he hears the slam of her bedroom door, and then he hears nothing at all.

It's hot on the porch, but he's not going to leave. He's waited for a lot of things, but none of them was anything like as important as this. He picks at the Brie-topped toast, and when it's almost 3:00 he returns to the kitchen for some water, the rest of the grapes, and the half-bag of chips. Eventually the coffee and water work their way through him, and he has to go to the bathroom. While washing his hands he sees a glass on the sink. He picks it up and sniffs, and can just detect the smell of bourbon. She must have left it here last night. Maybe she was going to bring it back to the kitchen after her shower, but he'd interrupted her.

She can't stay in her room forever, or even all day.

He cocks his head. He's the father of a teenager, and even one as close to angelic as Alexis has lapses in judgment, or thinks she can pull something over on him. That's when it comes to him: Beckett's window. It's on the side of the house, not the front. If she thinks, knows, that he's inside, she could climb out, get on her motorcycle, and have a good jump on him. The flight-or-fight response may be here, after all, except that's it both: fight and flight.

As stealthily as possible he moves through the cabin, and at the bottom of the porch steps turns right. Her room is on the left, so if he circles around the back she won't see him coming. He reaches the corner only a few seconds before her foot appears over the sill, and then her entire leg. He takes one large stride and wraps his hand around her knee.

"God, Castle, you scared me to death."

"You look very much alive to me, Beckett. Looks like you're trying to get away from me, too."

"Let go."

"No."

"Let go of me or I swear I'll call the cops."

"Really? Which cops? Your pal Sergeant Masden? I think my stock is a little higher with him than yours is."

She tries, without success, to wrest her knee from his hand. "Go away, Castle. Just go the hell away and leave me alone."

"No." He looks up at her. "What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing. You're the one who's afraid. You said so." This time she kicks her leg forward, hard, and clips his shoulder with her shoe. When he stumbles she manages to pull her leg back in, shut the window, and lock it.

She throws herself on the rickety bed, and tries to calm her breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. She stares at the ceiling. There's a rust-colored patch in the far corner that she hadn't noticed before. Is it a water stain? Maybe from a leaky roof? It hasn't leaked while she's been here, but there haven't been any serious storms, either. She could do with one, one that would wash everything away. Everything in her stupid wreck of a life.

Why does Castle care what she's doing? He told her he loved her. She can still remember his face when he said it. He was afraid then, for sure. It's the only time she's seen him fearful. He said, "Kate, I love you." She used to lie in bed like this in her father's cabin last summer, wondering why he'd looked so afraid. Wondering if he'd meant it. "I love you, Kate."

He can't bring himself to say it now. If he really did love her, he doesn't any longer.

Would he still love her if she hadn't said what she'd said to Bobby Lopez? If she'd hung on to Cole Maddox instead of letting him throw her off the roof of some seedy hotel, would he still love her? Would he still love her if she were a kick-ass detective and not a failure of an ex-cop who let her mother down? If she were more like Nikki Heat, the perfect, impossible-to-live-up-to version of Kate Beckett, would he still love her? Would he still love her if her feet weren't made of clay?

She's had a lot of time to think up here, even if she hasn't spent as much of it thinking as she should. Like, what to do with the rest of her life. There's no rush, is there? There's plenty of time. She can stay here for at least two more months, probably three, until it's too cold to stay in the cabin. Until the mice move in for the winter. She's 32 years old, and has no idea what to do next. She's not equipped to do anything but be a cop, and that's behind her.

Why is Castle still here? He'd gotten her out of jail; she'd thanked him. Shouldn't that be it? It has to be it. He has to leave. He should have told her in March what he told her today: that he left the precinct, left her, because she'd lied. If he had answered just one of her emails, picked up the phone just once when she'd called, she'd have told him. But he hadn't. She can't look in his eyes any longer. The blue she used to think of as promise and expectation and (she hoped) love is now the blue of disappointment. She can deal with the rage, more or less, but not the disappointment. She'd seen it for the first time on the Sunday morning when he visited her in jail, but it hadn't lasted long. He'd believed in her. He'd stood up for her. Helped her.

But it's in his eyes again, and it hasn't dissolved, hasn't given way to something better. Contempt would be better. Boredom would be better. Anything, absolutely anything, is better than disappointment from someone you love. There. She's said it. She loves him. Sometimes it feels like a bone-deep ache, sometimes like a scalpel slicing her open. Never does it feel the way it should: effervescent, thrilling.

He has to go back to New York or the Hamptons. There's no reason for him to be in Berryville. None.

She rolls over and gets out of bed. Taking a covered elastic from a little dish on her bureau, she pulls her hair into a ponytail and looks into the splotchy little mirror on the wall. Some of the splotchiness might be on her own skin. She doesn't know. She's not wearing make-up, has hardly even used mascara or lip gloss since she arrived. What the hell. Time to cut the cord. She opens the door and walks dispiritedly through the small interior and out on to the porch, where Castle is sitting on a chair.

"Listen, you should go," she says stiltedly, her hands shoved into her back pockets.

"I'm not going. Not yet."

Let him hear her sigh. She won't try to cover it up. "What do you want from me, Castle? I have nothing to give."

"I want you to tell me why you're drinking."

"I'm not drinking. You've been here for hours. Have you seen me drink? No. The only thing I've _imbibed_ today is coffee."

"You would be, though, wouldn't you," he says acidly as he gets to his feet, "if I weren't here?"

"That's none of your business."

"If I get a call in the middle of the night from a sergeant that you're in jail it is."

"That was once, Castle. Once. And only because that bastard Todd Fredericks came after me." Her hands aren't trembling but her voice is, and she hates it.

"What if he hadn't been there at all? What if you'd just walked down the street to your motorcycle and driven home? But what it you hadn't made it home? What if you'd been killed because you were too drunk to negotiate these roads? What if you'd killed someone else?"

"I wasn't too drunk."

"You were. Your blood alcohol level was–"

"How the hell do you know what my blood alcohol level was?"

"I saw the police report, remember?"

She wants to cry. She wants a drink. She can't do or have either, not as long as he's standing there. She turns her head away from him and looks at the trees, though she doesn't really see them. She's vaguely aware of mourning doves in the distance. Perfect. It's a prefect soundtrack for this horrible scene, the sad cooing, the sound of mourning.

"Kate?" He's shifting in place, and his voice has turned tender. "Kate? Have you talked to any of your friends since you left the city? Seen them?"

"Who?" That's the limit of what she can say without breaking down.

"Your friends. Lanie, especially. Espo and Ryan."

"Why?"

"Because I think it would be good for you."

"How do you know what's good for me, Castle?" She bites the inside of her cheek. "Have you? Have you seen them?"

"No, but–"

"Because you walked away from them, too. Your friends. Not just me."

That's the metaphorical bucket of cold water in his face. She's right. He'd left them, too. It doesn't excuse what she did to him, but it's true. He'd left the closest friends he's ever had because Beckett had hurt him, and he was furious at her. No wonder Lanie had been so ticked off when he'd asked for her address. He tries to play back their conversation of a few days ago, though it feels like months. What had she said? Oh. "You left without any explanation." It's true: he'd left not only Beckett, but the rest of them, without a word.

"You know what? You're right. I wanted to lash out at you, and I took it out on them. I shouldn't have."

"Damn right you shouldn't."

Despair tastes like dust in his mouth. "My question's the same, though," he says after a long pause. "Have you talked to them? Seen them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Nothing to say, Castle."

"There's always something to say."

"That's the difference between you and me." She moves to the door and stops with her back to him. "It's getting late. You should go. The city's a couple of hours away and these back roads aren't great in the dark. Goodbye."

There are no lights on in the cabin, and she vanishes. It's as if she had never been here. "Goodbye," she'd said. Not "good night" or even "night." He's suddenly back in the precinct after one of their earliest cases, sitting at her desk, and she gets up to leave.

"Until tomorrow, Detective," he says

"You can't just say, 'Night'?"

"I'm a writer," he counters. " 'Night' is boring. 'Until tomorrow' is more hopeful."

"Yeah, well, I'm a cop. Night."

Even though she'd said "night" then, he'd already been hopeful. And that was also the night–though she doesn't know it–that Esposito had taken him into the records room and let him read the cold-case file on Johanna Beckett. "If you tell her I did this, I'll make you bleed," Espo had told him. It had been the beginning of the beginning and the beginning of the end. That's what it feels like now. He'd read the file and four years later a man had thrown Beckett off a roof because of what he'd set in motion. And it had been Ryan, not him, who'd pulled her to safety while she called his name.

He sits on the bottom porch step until the last smear of red has faded from the sky. This is her home now, and his is the Holiday Inn, and that's where he's going. She can't put him off forever.

"Until tomorrow," he whispers before getting into his car. He'll be back tomorrow and the next day and the next and the next until he pulls her out of the black hole that's about to swallow her alive.

"Until tomorrow," he says again, looking at her window and hoping that she can hear him.

 **A/N** Many, many thanks again to all of you who are standing with this story.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

On the way to the motel he picks up pizza. He's reaching for a six-pack when he pulls back with a grimace, and buys soda instead. He eats while sitting at the small desk in his room, typing notes into his laptop with his right hand while holding either a can of ginger ale or a gooey slice in his left.

He's been doing everything by the seat of his pants, and he needs to make a plan. He can't, won't, leave her alone, but he can't just show up at the cabin every morning only to have her lock herself away. When she'd gone on a tirade a few hours ago, she'd been right about at least one thing: he hadn't told anyone except Gates that he was leaving. After his fury at Beckett had ebbed a little, he'd also found himself angry at the the boys for not checking in on him. But why should they have? They'd had nothing to do with Beckett's lie, and he was the one who'd cut them all off without a word. Furthermore, as his daughter harshly reminded him more than once, he wasn't a cop. They'd accepted him as one, but he wasn't.

At least he can try to make this right. Ryan doesn't appear to be holding a grudge; he couldn't have been nicer when they'd spoken on Sunday. Espo will be tougher. He gets his phone from his pocket and texts them, asking them to lunch tomorrow, his treat. Of course if they're in the middle of a case they won't be able to. Time was–long time was–he was in the middle of the same cases they were. Probably 75, 80 something like that. He could check the file he's made and hidden on his laptop, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that he had exited in the middle of a case four months ago, and now he has to make amends.

Ping!

It's Ryan. "Unless somebody around here acts on a homicidal impulse between now and then, lunch would be great. Noon OK? Where?"

He hadn't thought that far ahead, but it doesn't him take long to come up with the perfect spot. Union Square Cafe. Near the precinct. Fantastic food, out of the boys' range but not so far out that they'll be uncomfortable. Good thing he knows the owner; they'd never get in on such short notice otherwise, even in summer. He sends the name and address to Ryan and wonders if Espo is too pissed at him to come, or even answer.

The phone pings again shortly after he turns off the light but is still awake. It's Javi. "Homicidal impulse, Ryan? WTH is wrong with you? Sounds like something Castle would say. See you at the whoozit cafe. Better not be the kind of place they make you wear a tie."

That makes him chuckle. He types a quick reply. "Nope. And when was the last time you saw me wear a tie?"

"Dunno. You haven't been around in a long time."

Ouch. "True. See you at noon."

He has a restless night, dreaming of Beckett, worrying, feeling indecisive and insecure. When he's in the shower he realizes that he may not need a tie at lunch today, but he's got to wear something better than what he's brought with him. It means leaving earlier than he'd planned, but it's not as though he has a heavy schedule. He'd noticed a cute bakery in town, so he stops for a blueberry scone and a few minutes later pulls over at the end of Beckett's short driveway, walks up to the porch and puts the wax-paper bag on the top of the steps. Please eat, he says silently, fighting his desire to leave her a note, or a least a Post-it. I'm coming back. Please eat. I'm coming back.

Despite his early start he gets stuck in rush-hour traffic, stop-start-stop, already blistering hot. The humidity must be a thousand percent. When he gets to the loft he has just enough time to have another shower and change clothes. He's waiting inside the restaurant by the maître d's desk when Ryan–looking thinner than he had–and Esposito–looking stockier–come through the door together. Ryan gives Castle a hug, Espo gives him a nod.

As soon as they've ordered, Castle says, "I'm sure you're wondering what the occasion is."

"Kinda," Ryan says. Espo, borderline menacing, remains silent.

"I went to see Beckett."

"You did? Where is she?" the two men ask in tandem, much as he and Beckett used to do.

"One-traffic-light town in the Catskills."

"How'd you know where she was?" Espo asks, arms folded hard against his chest.

"Might have dragged it out of Lanie."

"Surprised Beckett opened the door. I wouldn't of."

"How is she?" Ryan asks, concern in his voice.

"Hanging in there." God, what a lie. "I just saw her for, you know, a little bit. " He's perjuring himself in front of two detectives but he can be truthful in his apology to them. "She chewed me out for not even saying goodbye to you, just leaving."

"Yeah, four years don't mean crap to you, Castle?"

"Just the opposite, Espo."

"Didn't look that way to me. There you were outside interrogation and then you weren't. Poof. Like we never existed."

He shakes his head. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. You guys were incredible to me from day one. Well, maybe day three or four." Why is he making feeble jokes?

"You tell Beckett you're sorry?"

"That's between them, Jav," Ryan says.

"Maybe, but you and me had to live with her afterwards. He didn't."

Castle has never been so relieved to see a waiter. Theirs has arrived with three heaping bowls, and extends his table-side stay to grate cheese over their pasta. He wishes he could ask the guy to sit down with them–preferably between him and Esposito, who looks as though he'd like to knock Castle into his buttery pappardelle, or possibly onto the floor.

"You're both right, guys," Castle says. "It is between Beckett and me. But that's exactly why I'm apologizing to you. I was mad at her about something but took it out on all of you. You didn't deserve that. At all. And I'm truly sorry. If you don't want to forgive me, I understand, but I hope you will."

"No harm done, Castle," Ryan says.

"Beckett forgive you?" his glowering partner asks.

"We're working on it." Correction. Unvoiced correction. He's working on it. He's not sure she can work on anything at present.

"Guess I have to take your word for it."

Ryan leans in. "So she's really doing okay?"

"I think she misses the job." And that's the truth, so help him. It's just far from the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

"You tell her you were gonna see us, bro?" Espo snaps.

"Uh, no. No. This is just between the three of us." He takes a long drink of water. "I hope you'll accept my apology. Try your pasta, anyway. You won't regret it."

Maybe it's the food, but Espo starts to warm up a little. Castle asks them about cases they've worked on lately, ones they think he might have relished.

"There was this one, right up your alley," Ryan says. "First heat wave, couple of weeks ago. With the mailbox? You hear about it?"

"No. I haven't been following much news lately." Or anything else.

"You'd a loved it. Couple on First Avenue. The girlfriend is a big reader–not high-class literature, but thrillers, mysteries. Like that." His eyes widen. "Sorry. I don't mean like your books, Castle. Yours are really great."

"No offense taken."

"More like beach books, you know?"

"Right."

"Anyway, they're always fighting about it. He says she's no fun anymore blah blah. Neighbors had to pound on the door sometimes to tell them to quiet down."

Espo picks up the story as naturally as a great relay runner taking the baton from his teammate. "So one night the AC is out and they're really at it. Old lady across the hall rings the doorbell and he tells her to eff off. Few minutes later the fighting stops so the lady thinks she must of made her point." He takes a forkful of fettuccine and looks at Ryan. Another baton-passing moment.

"There's a public library four blocks from there, with one of those book-return bins out front. Next morning a librarian gets to work around quarter to nine and unlocks the bin. There's a bunch of books in the bottom, and a black Hefty bag on top, with another couple of books on top of that. She's ticked off because someone has shoved their garbage in there, a problem they've had before. Not the best neighborhood. She locks the bin again and goes inside the building to get the cart because there's too much stuff for her to carry by herself." He spears a clam from his pasta and chews. "Man, this is so good."

Espo's turn. Castle had almost forgotten how much fun it is to watch them like this.

"So she wheels the cart out and starts stacking the books. The garbage stinks, right? But she thinks it stinks kind of funny. It's a little heavy for something not all that big, too, and when she drops the bag into the corner of the cart, keeping it away from the books, she sees there's blood all over her hand. Almost faints dead away. Gets her cell out of her purse and hits nine one one." He pauses dramatically, one eyebrow raised. "Know what's in the bag?"

"I've got a pretty good idea, but I'd rather hear it from you."

"The girlfriend's head. Half an hour later we're hauling the guy's hairy ass out of bed–"

"Wait. How'd you know who she was? Where they lived?"

"You ready for this? The maroon put her library card in her mouth." Espo looks triumphant. "Pretty big clue."

Ryan's turn again. "When we ask him why he did it, he says. 'I'm the one out there bustin' my balls every freakin' day, and she's just layin' around the house readin'. I tell her, 'Why doncha try readin' a recipe once in a while?' She don't answer, and that really pisses me off. Know what I'm sayin'? Wanna know why I did it? I did it 'cause her head was always in a book, that's why'."

They all laugh so hard that the couple at the next table stares at them.

"Hope none of my books was in that bin," Castle says, which prompts more laughter.

Over coffee they talk as if there had never been a rift between them. The boys ask about Alexis; Castle asks Ryan about Jenny and asks Espo if he'd give him shooting lessons.

Ryan checks his phone. "Gotta go, Javi."

"Body?" Castle asks, as excited as if someone were offering him a puppy

"Nah. But it's getting late. Don't want Gates all over us for taking too long a lunch."

"How about I send you back with dessert for her? For all of you. That should sweeten her up."

"Ain't possible to sweeten that woman," Espo says. "But sure. Thanks."

Outside at the curb Castle hands them a cafe shopping bag with a selection of desserts. When Espo hugs him he realizes that he hasn't felt this good since March 26th. He starts walking home but it's too hot, and he hails a cab. In the loft he hangs a couple of nice shirts and a good pair of pants in a garment bag and carries them down to his car. While he's buckling his seat belt his phone pings with a text from Ryan."Thanks for a great lunch. Thanks for not saying anything to Javi about our call the other day, too."

He's about to respond when Ryan sends a second text. "Don't be a stranger, Castle."

It's hard to swallow past the lump in his throat. He takes a minute before putting the car in gear and driving out of the garage. He's way ahead of the evening rush, and a few miles outside Berryville he visits an enormous farm stand. Corn is still a month away, but he gets a quart of glistening strawberries, two kinds of lettuce, radishes, home-made turkey sausage, and a round loaf of Italian bread dusted with sesame seeds. The only thing that needs cooking is the sausage, and even the ancient stove in the cabin's tiny kitchen should be good enough for that. Maybe she'll kick him out. Maybe she'll refuse to come out of her room. Maybe she won't. Maybe she'll sit down for supper with him.

Visiting with Ryan and Espo has made him hopeful again.

The shadows of the trees have reached the edge of the porch when he arrives at her place. Her motorcycle is exactly where it was when he stopped here briefly ten hours or so ago. When he gets out of the car his heart sinks: the Harley isn't the only thing that hasn't been moved. The wax-paper bag, listing slightly to the left, the top folded over twice, is still at the top of the steps. She hasn't touched it. The screen door is shut, but the regular door is wide open, as are all the windows. From his spot on the porch, he neither sees nor hears any movement.

The air is hot and still, but he feels a chill on the back of his neck.

"Beckett?"

He waits.

"Beckett?"

Could she have gone for a walk?

"Beckett?" Louder this time.

He doesn't care if she comes at him with a butcher knife or garden shears; he's going in. He calls her again. "Beckett? You home?" He walks to the little hallway and can see her bed. It's made. She isn't in there. He cranes his neck in an effort to see into the bathroom. He catches sight of her bare foot. And then her other foot. She's sprawled on the tile floor. The brown paper bag from the farm stand slips from his hand and he shoves the door all the way open. She's dressed in an old NYPD tee shirt and short shorts. There's a trickle of blood, still red, on her cheekbone, and vomit on her chin and the ribbed collar of her shirt.

"Kate! Kate! Kate!"

He scoops her up as if she were a sleeping child. She's alive. Thank you, Jesus. She's alive. He can feel her pulse, feel her breath.

"Kate!"

She moans softly as he holds her tight against his chest with one arm and uses the other to grab a towel from the bar and douses it with cold water. He wipes off the vomit with one end and presses the other against her cheekbone. It's a shallow cut and the bleeding has stopped, but a bruise is already forming. She might have a black eye. He opens her mouth and runs two fingers inside to make sure there's nothing there for her to choke on. Free. Thank God. Again. Her respiration is fine, too.

"Castle?"

"Yes." He's still cradling her with one arm, and with his free hand yanks open the glass door of the shower and turns the water on full force. He carefully steps over the metal stripping, and sets her on her feet without letting go of her. They're both standing; he's behind her and bearing some of her weight, and moves his arms so they band around her rib cage. He can feel her heartbeat, steady and strong, against the inside of his forearm. She's fighting him, but not hard. They're both soaked through.

For a modest cabin, the shower is surprisingly good. She wriggles against him. A good sign.

"Lemme go."

"No way."

"Son of a bitch."

"I've been called worse."

"Leggo."

"Not a chance in hell, Beckett. We're staying in here for a while."

"Son of a bitch."

"You said that already."

He's not letting go. He wants to cry into her wet hair.

TBC

 **A/N** All you reviewers? Special thanks to you for cheering me on. It's an immeasurable help. And I promise that things will get better.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

They stay in the shower long enough for him to wish that he'd taken off his sneakers before he'd carried her in, but that's his only regret. She's fully awake, standing up reasonably well, and mildly cursing him. He can take it, does take it. Tilting his head back to let the warm water flood his face, he begins to formulate a plan–at least for the immediate future, meaning tonight and tomorrow morning.

"Time for us to get out, Beckett," he says at last, turning off the faucet. Concerned that she might trip over the raised metal strip that keeps the water from leaking onto the floor, he hoists her over it. There's a small wooden cabinet under the window, and he guesses correctly that it contains spare towels. He grabs a couple, and wraps one around her. "I'm going to help you to your bedroom so–"

"Don't need help."

Untruer words were never spoken, he thinks. "I'll walk you to your bedroom so you can get into some dry clothes. If you're not out in five minutes I'll come in through the window and get you." He takes her by the hand and steers her gently the short distance to her room. She doesn't look at him, but at least she shuts rather than slams the door behind her.

He makes a soggy dash to his car. Not long after he'd arrived at the Twelfth he'd started keeping a small bag of clothes in the trunk, and now he's grateful that he hadn't broken the habit. He pulls out the gym bag and takes it inside to the bathroom. After changing quickly into boxers, jeans, and a polo shirt–all the while monitoring the occasional noises emanating from the bedroom–he retrieves the brown bag from the farm and pads barefoot to the kitchen to put the food away. He flips on the overhead light and starts a pot of coffee, and every few seconds looks nervously over his shoulder, expecting her to swoop in like an avenging angel.

Since the coffee's done and she has yet to appear, he pours two mugs, puts them on a tray with some water and a bowl of peanuts, and brings them to her door.

"Beckett?" He waits several seconds. "Kate?"

When a full minute elapses and she still hasn't said anything, he announces calmly, "I'm coming in."

She's sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to her chin, and a towel thrown over her head, completely covering it.

"Made coffee," he says before sitting down cross-legged opposite her. He nudges a mug in her direction. "It would be good if you drank it." When she she doesn't reach for it he leans forward, gathers up the towel, and drops it next to his hip. "Easier to drink without that. And I want to see your face."

Though she turns her head away, he can hear her ask, "Why?"

"I like to to see people when we're talking. And besides–" He's afraid that he's already losing his nerve, and he clenches his jaw before continuing. "And besides, I want to make sure that that cut is all right. On your cheekbone. It might need some antibiotic cream."

He watches her hand move hesitantly to her face. When her fingertip finds the cut she snatches it away. "If there is any. Here. Um, antibiotic cream." Aware that his voice is fading, he clears his throat. "Or I could go buy some." He picks up the other thing that he'd brought from the kitchen, crushed ice that he'd sealed in a plastic bag and wrapped in a dish towel. "This is a homemade ice pack, but it should help. If you hold it against your cheek it will keep the swelling down." He holds it out to her. "That cut isn't too bad." She continues to look away, so he places the bundled dishtowel next to her foot and stands up. "I'm going to check the medicine cabinet."

He's trying to behave as this were an ordinary evening and an ordinary first-aid moment.

To his surprise he finds a tube of Neosporin, presumably left behind by a previous tenant, and the expiration date is still a month away. They had been in the shower for a long time and the cut was well rinsed, but he's not taking any chances, so he wets a washcloth and soaps it liberally. When he gets back to Beckett, he's relieved to see that she's holding the ice pack to her face. "Could you take that off for a minute, please, so I can clean the cut?" he asks, squatting in front of her. "I want to make sure it's all clear before I put on the ointment."

What's more surprising? She lets him do it, without a squawk. "Looks good," he declares when he finishes. "I don't think you'll have even a tiny scar."

"Wouldn't matter if I did," she mumbles in the direction of her knees. "I have lots of scars."

Oh, God, those scars. Unless she means some other ones, and what could they be? What could they possibly be compared to the ones that must be her daily reminder of what happened last summer? He uncaps a bottle of water and touches the cold edge of it to her hand. "Drink this. Please."

She lifts her head and really looks at him for the first time since yesterday. "I'm tired, Castle."

"I know. Drink the water, or the coffee. It's still hot."

"I'm so tired. I was asleep before, you know."

"Ah." Asleep? If that's what she wants to call it. Asleep on the bathroom floor. Okay, maybe she was. Sleeping it off on the bathroom floor. A night on the tiles. "You'll feel better if you drink some water."

She's back to talking to her kneecaps. "I'm going to bed."

"Beckett?"

"Yes?"

"You're still wet. I mean, you should change into something dry before you go to bed."

"You want to see me naked, Castle?" It's not flirting, or a come on, or even a real question. There's some kind of new and terrible resignation in her voice, as if she expects him to be so repelled by her that he would never want to see her any way but fully clothed. It makes his heart drop.

"No. No, I just think it's a bad idea to sleep in a soaking wet shirt." He gets to his feet and feels as if he were eighty. "Uh, good night." He leaves the tray on the floor, but doesn't turn to look at her as he leaves the room and closes the door. In the bathroom, he puts the Neosporin in the cabinet, fishes a toothbrush and tiny tube of paste from his bag, and brushes his teeth.

There's a small closet in the hallway, and he peeks in. Good. It's a catch-all that contains exactly what he needs: bedding. He grabs some, but as he crosses into the living room exhaustion hits him like a fully-loaded pick-up truck. He strips off his jeans, collapses onto the sofa, and shoves a pillow under his head. The air is much cooler than it had been, which is typical at night in the mountains, so he shakes out a blanket and pulls it over him. To hell with the sheets. If she finds him here she'll kill him, but he's too tired to worry about it.

When he wakes he has a crick in his neck and a dent in his ankle, which is perched on the arm of the sofa that's not quite long enough to accommodate his six-feet-two-inch frame. What time is it? He sees his Levi's on the floor and by stretching his right arm to the maximum, he can snag and drag them over. He shakes the phone out of a pocket and sees that it's almost seven. His stomach rumbles. Unsettled as he continues to be by what happened last night, he's ravenous, but the cupboard here rivals Mother Hubbard's. He rolls off the sofa, stretches, and gets the coffee going. While it's brewing he contemplates the discouraging interior of the fridge, but when he opens the door, he's ecstatic to find what he'd forgotten in last night's emotional chaos: the farm-stand bounty. He removes the bread, butter, and strawberries.

First, though, coffee. He's on his third, welcome sip when he hears the snick of a door opening and immediately after another one closing. She must be in the bathroom. He's braced, or hopes he is, for what's to come: rage and whatever else accompanies her hangover. When he hears the door open again he moves to his right so that she'll be sure to see him. "Morning, Beckett," he says, deliberately softly. Would you like some coffee?"

She moves slowly out of the shadows into the sunlit living room, her head bowed. "Thanks." She stops several feet away from him, so he pours a mug and extends it to her. She puts it to her lips and winces slightly, and when she turns her head she startles. "You slept here?"

He's wrong. There's no rage, and if she has a headache, she doesn't show it.

"Yes." It seems best to leave it at that for now.

"Why?"

She wants an explanation; he'll keep it simple. "I didn't want to leave you alone overnight."

"Why?"

Oh, boy. "Well, in case you needed something, or, maybe." Get a grip, you're a writer. "In case you felt sick."

She drinks some coffee, but doesn't move from the spot and stares at the floor rather than him. "Don't you want to leave?"

He'd thought she might kick him out. He hadn't expected this, to leave it up to him. "No. It's nice here."

"Don't you want to leave me?"

"No." If this keeps up, he's going to need the bourbon that he poured down the drain a few minutes ago. Too late now.

"I did."

He's at a loss. What does she mean? "I'm sorry, what?"

"I did."

"You did what?"

"Leave. My father."

He's wordless.

"I left my father. I couldn't take it any more. And now I'm him. I'm my father."

Her voice cracks and his heart does the same.

"I'm my father. I looked at my tee shirt when I woke up, Castle. It's stained from vomit. And my cheek, my cheek is cut. So blood and vomit, just like my father. You cleaned that off me. I don't know how you could bear it." She sits down hard on the floor, still gripping the mug, and starts to cry.

She rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, eventually doubling over until her forehead is on the insides of her calves. It reminds him of news footage that he's seen of mothers who have just been told of the death of a husband or a child. She's keening, and he inches closer so that he can hear her, even though her voice is muffled.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I screamed at you. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I was so mad at you. I'm sorry, Dad. I let you down. I'm sorry. I screwed everything up. I'm sorry."

He doesn't know what to do. He wants to get down on the floor with her and hold her against his chest, embrace her, even rock her, until she knows that she is safe and loved, until she understands that he is not sitting in judgment but standing with her.

TBC

 **A/N** To the guest reviewer of the last chapter who wrote: " 'Wouldn't have' 'Must have' not 'wouldn't of' 'Must of' Sorry, it's a bit of a pet peeve of mine. But otherwise really enjoying the story." I'm glad that you're enjoying it and appreciate your letting me know. I understand grammar peeves as I'm something of a grammar stickler myself, but in this instance I used incorrect grammar as a conversational device. Espo is one of millions of people who use "of" for "have," and that's why I did it. (In the same scene he also said "me and you" instead of "you and I" and "ain't" instead of "isn't." That's our Espo!)


	12. Chapter 12

There must be a book–probably hundreds, plus online forums and DVDs–with advice on what to do in this situation, but he hasn't read or seen any of them. Though a big believer in research, he's often had to trust his instincts, especially in the last few years, and he's going to do it again now. His gut tells him to get down on the floor with Beckett, and so he does.

It's a little awkward at first, not only because of the way she's sitting but also because he's so nervous. He sits facing her and tries to figure out how to hug her from there, but nothing works well, so he scoots around in a quarter circle that places him side-by-side with her. He moves his right arm across her back and starts drawing her to him. My God, she's thin. He can feel all of her ribs and her scapula, her clavicle and the ball and socket of her shoulder. She's still crying, but she's not speaking as he runs his hand up and down her upper arm, again and again and again, finally cupping her head in his hand and holding it against his chest. Her hair is tangled because she went to bed with it wet, and hasn't brushed it. "Sshhh," he whispers into it. "Sshhh. Sshhh." After the seventeenth or forty-third or ninety-first reiteration, he has no idea which, he feels the flutter of a pulse against his lips and realizes that he has unconsciously pressed them to her temple. "Sshhh," he whispers again, this time into her ear.

Has she stopped crying? He thinks so, but now she's trembling as violently as she had when they'd been locked in that refrigerated storage container last year–the first time that he'd thought she might die in his arms. With a shudder of his own, he moves away from her and onto to his knees, and scoops her up. It's anything but graceful, but he has her, and by gripping his toes on the bare wood he succeeds in getting to his feet without either dropping her or falling over. He carries her to the sofa and sits down, clutching her against him as he reaches for the blanket. After moving her onto his lap, he envelops both of them in the lightweight wool, and leans back. "Sshhh," he says again as he wraps one hand around both of hers. They're like ice.

"You're so cold, Beckett. Do you want to get in the shower? Should I find you a sweater?"

She shakes her head.

"Do you want me to put you to bed?"

She shakes her head again.

"What would you like right now?"

There's a long silence, followed by a short and terrible sentence. "To die."

"Oh, God, no. Don't. Don't say it." He's choking on her words as well as his own. "You don't mean it."

"I want to die." Her voice is tiny and her tone is–he can't think of any other word for it–dead.

"There's no reason for that. None." He's rocking her now, to comfort himself as much as her, to reassure her.

"I'm down."

"And you can get up."

"No."

"I'll help you."

" 'm all the way down, Castle."

He puts three fingers under her chin and tilts her head up. "Look at me." Her eyes are shut. "Look at me, Kate." Still shut. "Look at me."

When she finally opens them he wishes that she hadn't. He has never seen anguish like what's reflected there. Ever. The pain of it is almost unendurable. Don't lose it, he tells himself. Keep going, keep on. "You're all the way down?"

She closes her eyes again, and nods. He leaves his fingers under her chin.

"Look at me, Kate. If you're all the way down, then we're going to get you all the way back."

"Can't. I've ruined everything."

"You can. Listen." He's asking her to do that, but what the hell is he going to say? What half-baked wisdom–he'll be lucky if it's even that–can he impart that will make her sit up and pay attention?

And then he has it–something, anyway, something for her to hang onto, something to begin, the first rung on what he knows will be a long ladder. "You said you're your father. Okay. Your father is incredible. Strong, smart, caring. Sounds a lot like you. He was all the way down. You told me that. All the way. But not now. He got up. He got up and stayed there." He circles her left wrist and squeezes it lightly. "That's why you wear his watch. You told me that, too. 'This is for the life I saved'."

She moves her wrist just a fraction inside his grasp. "Can't wear it any more."

"Of course you can, Kate."

"Don't deserve it."

"You do."

He keeps rocking, working his fingers through her hair to try to undo the snarls, but gently enough that he doesn't hurt her. She relaxes into him so gradually that it takes quite a while for him to discover that she's asleep. He eases her off her lap, stretches her out, and puts the blanket back over her.

She needs a lot, and what she needs first is what he can handle: something to fight the hangover. He scribbles a note and leaves it on the floor next to the sofa.

"Gone to the market. Be right back."

He struggles over whether he should sign it. If he does, should it be Castle? Rick? R? RC? Should he write love? No, but maybe an x? Ultimately he leaves it blank. It's not as though she won't know who wrote it.

Relieved that his sneakers have dried out, he slips them on and tiptoes to his car. He's gone less than an hour and bought enough food for three days–probably five, given the way she eats, but he'll work on that. She's still asleep and doesn't appear to have moved.

He makes the best hangover-cure breakfast that he knows: scrambled eggs, a cut-up banana on the side, and an enormous glass of water. When he goes to wake her up he's overtaken by the same indecisiveness that descended on him when he wrote her the note. Should he touch her shoulder? Her arm? Or not touch her at all? What if he just called her name? Or he could bend over and say it so when she opens her eyes she sees him right there. Would that be good? Jesus, at this rate he's not going to make it through the day.

"God, I'm thirsty."

Her voice, low and raspy, is such a shock that he drops a fork, which skitters across the floor and stops only when it hits the squat, scarred leg of the sofa on which Beckett is–had been–sleeping. "You're awake."

"I'm so thirsty."

"Good, because I have an excellent bottle of water here for you. Perfect temperature. I tested it on my wrist."

That gets him an eye roll, and it makes him so happy that he almost kisses her.

"It's raining."

"And?"

"And so you might want to drink your water here. Inside. Here." He nods his head towards the corner of the room, near the door, where he'd brought in the little table from the porch and set their breakfast on it. "I made eggs for you. Us. I thought–. I thought they'd be good this morning. Scrambled eggs are always good after, for." What is the matter with him?

"After you've nearly drunk yourself into a coma?"

The elephant in the room is walking around and beginning to wave its trunk. It might be on the verge of making noise. He knows that he should address it, but he needs a little time. In his mind he staves it off with a handful of peanuts while he feeds Beckett something else. "C'mon," he says evenly, making eye contact with her and willing her not to break it. "Have your breakfast."

She does hold his look for a second, which he records as progress, before walking past him to the table. He waits for her to sit down before joining her. "It's the cysteine," he says.

"What?"

"Cysteine. In the eggs. It breaks down the toxin from, um."

"Booze?"

"Well, yeah."

"How do you know that?"

"My mother." If she could read his mind, and there have been times when he was sure she could, this is what she'd see. _Please pick up your fork, Beckett. Please try at least a bite. If you lose one more ounce that Omega Speedmaster will slip off your wrist._ Maybe this is one of those times, because she does lift her fork, spear a tiny bit of egg, and eat it. She's not smiling, but she's not gagging either. He looks pointedly at her plate, keeps looking until she takes another bite, and swallows that. And then another. It takes for freaking ever, even that child-size portion, but she finally finishes. "Have some banana," he urges, tapping his spoon on the rim of the bowl.

"It come with another chemistry lesson?"

"One word only, I promise. Potassium."

He counts to 518, which is how long it takes her to eat three slices. That, too, he marks as progress, wordlessly marks it: there have been no words from either of them since he said "potassium." She surprises him by drinking the entire bottle of water, and he pushes his unopened one towards her.

At last she breaks the silence. "You can't tell my Dad, Castle."

He's aching to say something, but he wants her to continue.

"Please," she says, her voice trembling. "He doesn't know. You can't tell him."

She looks so guilty, so fearful, that he can't keep quiet. "You're a grown woman. Why would I say anything to your father?"

"Because you're ashamed of me. And he will be."

"I'm not ashamed of you."

"You must be. I saw it on you when you came in the jail. And it's much worse now. Now that you've seen me like this. Like last night." That sets off the tears again. "Underneath you must be disgusted."

This is a train of thought that he must derail. "Never. I could never be ashamed of you. Or disgusted with you, ever."

"And furious."

Has she heard him? At all? "That I have been. But I'm not now. A little mad, still, but not furious." He puts his head in his hands for a moment. He has to let go. He inhales as if he'd had no air in his lungs. "You know what I did on May nineteenth?"

"No," she says, not loud enough for him to hear, as she wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand.

"It was two months after I walked out of the precinct. I was still raging at you because you'd lied to me. I've almost never been that angry, because I was also so hurt. It was like poison in my system, you know?"

"Cas–"

"Please let me finish." He says it kindly. He wants this to sink in, wants her to understand. "I went to the cemetery and put flowers on Roy Montgomery's grave. It was the first anniversary of–." He needs to collect himself before he can continue, so he finds a spot on the wall beyond Beckett's shoulder and focuses on that.

"I waited until it was dark, almost midnight, in case you or the family were going, and I sat down and talked to him. I kept thinking about the night he died, at the hangar. You found out that he'd lied to you about your mother's murder. Even from where I was standing, I could hear him. And you. The air was so clear. He told you what he'd done, he admitted his part in covering up the most important case in your life. And yet you said, 'Sir, I forgive you. I forgive you'."

If it weren't nine in the morning, if he weren't sitting almost knee-to-knee with a woman who has been drowning herself in alcohol, he'd steel himself with a drink, maybe two. He takes another deep breath instead. "I asked myself why I couldn't forgive you? The lie that you told me was nothing compared to the one Montgomery that told you, and you forgave him. But I couldn't let it go. I couldn't. And I left. I was halfway out of the cemetery when I turned around and went back. I took one of the flowers that I'd left on his grave and said, 'I have to leave one for Beckett, Roy.' And then I walked to where you'd been standing when you were hit. Where I was too late to knock you down before the bullet did. I could find that spot blindfolded. And I put the flower there. It was a carnation. It was goodbye. And then I went home and got very drunk and fell into bed. Still had my shoes on."

He stops looking at the spot on the wall and turns his eyes back on her. "I have never, will never, be ashamed of you. But." Can he do this?

Now she's looking intently at him, with such emotion he has to push himself as hard as he ever has to say what he wants to say. "But I wish you'd stop drinking. I want to understand why. Whatever drove you to it, I wish you'd stop. Do you?"

TBC

 **A/N** Special thanks to those who PMed me after the previous chapter, identified themselves as recovering alcoholics, and shared a little of their stories with me. I have the greatest respect for you.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

His question has immobilized her. If he'd asked her this a day or two earlier, she'd have thrown him out, taken off, or both. But he hadn't been ready a day or two ago, and he hopes that she's ready to answer now. At least they're both here, in the same room, at the same table.

Time seems frozen, too. If there were an old clock on the wall, and this cabin in the woods is definitely the place for one, it would have ceased ticking. When time starts again he feels as if he's in a slow-motion world. Her eyes change gradually, subtly; their expression is not one of wariness, which wouldn't have surprised him, but of thoughtfulness, as if she had been weighing the question–do you want to stop drinking?– and considering it from every conceivable angle.

She starts to say something, and stops. He can't tell if her mouth is shaping "yes" or "no." She blinks, but there's a long interval before she blinks again. His mind rushes back to a visit that he and Alexis made to a farm when she was in first grade, and they were allowed to pat some adorable goats. He thought that they looked very wise, and when he mentioned it to the farmer she explained that it's because goats blink only one or twice a minute.

Beckett blinks again, but this time she speaks. "No." She runs her tongue along her lower lip. "Yes." She swallows hard, as if it were a difficult thing to do. "I don't know. I don't know, Castle."

He'd been prepared for a no or a yes, and is reasonably sure how he would have responded to either, but not this. Not an indecisive Kate Beckett, the most decisive person he has ever met. Not rash, but always decisive.

"You don't know if you want to stop, or you don't know why you started?"

"The first. The stopping. I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

She looks wounded by his question. "Because."

He's damned if he'll settle for that, but he's making the effort to sound as neutral as possible. "Because?"

She works her jaw for a long time before responding. "Because I don't know if stopping will get me anywhere. At least–. At least when I drink I don't feel much."

"Don't you want to? Feel something, I mean."

"No. Because when I'm not drinking it's like I'm in a desert. Or hell. I don't know how to say it. It's–it's nowhere. When I'm not drinking I'm nowhere, or nowhere good, and I'm not sure I can stand that any longer."

"So you want to feel _nothing_?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because that's what I am."

"You're–"

"Nothing. I'm nothing. I screwed up my job. I thought I had the man who shot me, the man hired by the man who was responsible for my mother's death. I did have him. He was right there, and he got away. I was fucking useless against him." He watches her throat and another hard swallow. "Not just him. I let everything get away."

"Not me."

"Not you what?"

"You didn't let me get away."

"Oh, right. Correction," she says bitterly. "I drove you away."

He looks down at his hands, one of which he has unwittingly made into a fist so tight that his fingernails might have drawn blood from his palm. "I think we both shoulder some blame for that one."

She's using her fork to push stray bits of banana around her plate, staring at them as if they were a science experiment. "Maybe if I'd paid more attention to Burke."

"Who's that?"

"No one. Never mind." She covers her eyes as if you shut out Burke, whoever that is. "He's gone, too."

Castle uncurls his hand and shakes it. It hurts like hell. "I don't want to forget it. Him. Burke. Especially if you think you should have paid more attention to him."

Her face has been so pale this morning, yet in an instant two spots of pink appear in the hollows of her cheeks. She's not angry, she's– embarrassed? Ashamed? Of what? She mumbles something but he can't make it out. "Hmm?"

"My therapist, okay?" The three words come out in a rush like air from a blown-out tire. "Therapists are supposed to help you get better. I thought he was, or I was, and then all this happened and it was worse."

If she'd sprouted another arm or turned into a kangaroo he wouldn't have been as stunned as he is by this bit of information. Katherine Beckett, the most controlled person–at least until very recently–he knows, was in therapy? Had been, anyway. But because he lacks her self-control, or former self-control, he blurts out, "You've been going to a shr–therapist?"

"Yes. And I'm sure you think less of me. I get it."

"Kate." He's throwing neutrality out the window for a moment, and briefly puts his hand over hers. "Why in God's name would I think less of you? I'm just surprised that you're seeing one."

"Was. I didn't want to go anyway."

"Why did you, then?"

"They made me."

He raises an eyebrow. That's all.

"The department. Last September when I came back from, you know. NYPD policy. You have to see a shrink if someone shoots you."

"Okay. I didn't know that. That's good. That's a good idea." Step it up, he tells himself. This is feeble. He wants her to, needs her to, keep talking. "It sounds like you saw him for a while, though, right? You said he was helping? Doctor Burke?" He hadn't noticed until that moment that she's been shredding her paper napkin, so that now it resembles slightly soggy confetti. Too bad we can't throw it up in the air to celebrate, he thinks, but there's nothing to celebrate. Or maybe there is, considering what she just confided to him. Just the fact that she confided in him at all.

"Most people only go once. Enough to pass their psych eval."

"But not you?"

"Wasn't going to, but I went back."

"That's good, too, if you needed help."

"You think I needed help?"

Sweet Jesus, this is not easy. "I think anyone who got shot in the chest while delivering a eulogy for her boss, her mentor, would need help. Especially when the shooter's still out there." Oh, brilliant, Castle, remind her that she didn't nail the guy, the one who has nearly killed her twice. Hurry up, hurry up, get back on track. "You're the strongest person I know. All I meant was even the strongest person in the world might once in a while need something."

"I'm weak."

"You think you're weak? Are you kidding me?"

"That's what my father was, all those years on the bottle. A weakling. That's what I am now. Have been for a while. Like you said, the shooter's still out there. Because I was weak."

"May I ask you something?"

"You're always asking me something." She shrugs. It's an almost invisible upward movement of her shoulders, but he catches it, and it gives him the nerve to keep going.

"Why did you go back? More important, why did you stay?"

"Because I hated begin scared. That's not who I was."

"You were scared of the shooter."

"Yeah."

He's going out on a limb, and he's not at all confident that it will support his weight. He can feel it creaking, dipping dangerously low. "I don't believe it."

Her eyes flash a little. "You calling me a liar?"

"No. You already admitted that you lied to me about remembering your shooting. I'm saying I don't believe that your shooting, the shooter, is the only thing that frightened you."

"Fine. Fine. You remember what you told me the night before Captain Montgomery died? When you came over to my apartment?'

As if he could forget. That whole scene is etched in acid in his memory. "What, specifically?"

"You said that I'd been chasing my mother's case so long that I was afraid to find out who I was without it. I could have killed you right then."

He keeps quiet, lets her take the lead. This is the only way they're going to make headway. He's pushed her, and she's pushing back, but in doing that she might also push open the door.

She sighs and looks away. Her voice gets smaller again, and he has to strain to hear her. "You were right."

He was right? Under almost any other circumstance he'd grab the confetti-ized napkin and shower both of them with it. But if he's right– again–a door has just cracked open.

"I went back first because I lied to Burke about it, too. I told him that I didn't remember anything about the shooting, and I was so–I wanted to talk to him. And I did. And then after a few weeks, um. This case."

She trails off, so he steps in only long enough for a two-word question. "What case?"

"Doesn't matter."

Oh, but it does, but he won't press it. At least not now. "So you kept going then? Seeing Burke?"

"Not really. It was after another case that I really started to. You know, seriously." She looks at the shredded napkin in confusion, as if she has no idea how it got there. "The sniper one. When I had a meltdown."

Aha. So it was PTSD that prompted her return to Burke. "I could see the toll it was taking on you. It must have sent you right back into your own case."

"Yeah, it did." She's anxiously rubbing her knuckles against her cheek. "I didn't want to be this weakling any more. I hated it. I wanted to be strong again. I thought going to a shrink was a sign of weakness, but I began to see that maybe it wasn't. Not always. And then I kept going back after that because of what you said about my mother's case. I admitted to Doctor Burke that I didn't know who I was without it, because it had defined me for so long. We talked about it a lot. He said he could help me if I could let go. He wanted to know if I was ready to let go and I said I thought I was." She stops. "I can't talk about this any more. I can't." She pushes her chair away from the table with such force that it topples over, but she apparently doesn't notice. She walks out through the screen door, down the steps, into the heavy rain, turns right and is no longer in sight.

Holy shit, Beckett has been seeing a shrink. He's still having trouble processing that. A shrink she talked to about her mother's unsolved case, a shrink who was helping free her of that life-crushing burden. And then she stopped going to him. Why? He's trying to recall what she'd said. It's taunting him, and then he has it. She'd been making progress–not her word–until "all this happened and it was worse." What's "all this"? He leaves the table, absent-mindedly replaces her chair, pours himself a cup of hot coffee, and drinks it while leaning against the sink. All _this_ must mean letting Cole Maddox, the man who shot her, get away, and her subsequent resignation, mustn't it? No. Not entirely, because wouldn't she have said all _that_? But she'd said all _this_. _This_ is something ongoing, something present, something here. Her drinking? What?

The wind suddenly picks up and shifts, making the screen door rattle. It rattles him, too, then clears his mind. _This_ must also mean him, include him. All this is his leaving the precinct without explanation, about her failing to get Maddox into custody, about her quitting her job and completely losing her moorings. About her drinking. About her fighting off an attempted rape and then being arrested in Berryville. About him coming to bail her out and stirring everything up again. About telling her why he'd left. About her telling him why she'd lied. About–oh God oh God oh God–his inability to tell her, as he had after Cole Maddox's shot had brought her down, that he loved her. Loves her. In the present, not only the past. The present and the future. Heloved her, he loves her, he will always love her.

He can't right everything else, but he can right this one thing. Maybe, just maybe, it will help enable her to right everything else. He knows enough about alcoholism to understand that she's the one who has to stand up against it; he can only lend support. He's shaking as hard as she had been a few hours ago, when he'd held her on the floor. He drops his mug in the sink and runs, taking the same route out of the cabin that she had.

In seconds he's drenched and cold. The rain is coming down at a sharp angle, making it hard for him to see. Where the hell is she? He tries shouting, but gets no answer. She has no shoes on; the pebbles and rough ground will be hard on her feet. Finally he sees her, slumped against a tree, her tee shirt white against the dark bark of the towering pine. She's as wet as he is. He'd worry about lightning striking her except that at least this isn't a thunderstorm. He runs faster, trips on a thick root but keeps his balance.

"Beckett," he says, his heart pounding, his breath short. "Kate," he says, crouching down in front of her. "I have to tell you something."

She looks to her right, away from him.

"Please. I have to tell you. It's important. Please, please look at me."

His breathing gets no easier while he waits. At last, she turns her head back towards him.

"Kate," he says. "You have to believe me this time. Promise me you'll believe me. I love you."

TBC

A/N Thank you for sticking around! Have a wonderful weekend.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She's cold and she's sober. She's cold-stone sober. Like a rock. She feels as if she'd been hit by a rock. She's sober and cold as stone.

If she's stone-cold sober, and she is, she must have heard him correctly. Mustn't she? Last night when she was drunk Castle picked her up off the floor and cleaned her up. He didn't leave. And now she's sober and she heard him say, "I love you." Heard him ask her to believe him.

It must be true, then.

He loves her.

She doesn't understand it. "How?"

That was not an answer he'd considered–if he'd stopped to consider, which he hadn't. He's baffled by her answer, which isn't an answer at all, but a question. Is her face wet from the rain, or from rain and tears? "How?" he says. "How what?"

"How can you love me?"

The downpour is so hard now that it actually hurts as it lashes his bare arms and face. "How can I love you, Kate? How can I not?"

"I can think of a billion reasons."

"Well, I can't. That's not how love works." He's just said that when he sees a flash of lightning in the distance, and almost immediately hears and feels the rolling boom of thunder. They have to go. She's not shrinking from him, but she's not moving towards him, either. He doesn't care; no matter what, she's coming with him. He takes her hand and pulls both of them up from the ground. "We have to get inside. Now. Under a tree is the worst place to be. We could be killed." In her mood, she might choose that, but he won't allow it. Grasping her hand firmly, he runs to the cabin, trailing a mute, but at least not protesting, Beckett.

He doesn't let go of her until they're through the door, when he drops her hand and sprints to the bathroom. They'd used all the towels in the little cabinet, but he'd hung up some of them last night, and they're dry. Dry enough, anyway. When he gets to the living room she's standing exactly as he'd left her, as if they were playing Statues. Instead of offering a towel, he wraps it around her shoulders. When she still doesn't move, he begins to rub her arms and legs vigorously, and when he's done with that uses the towel to wring some of the water from her hair. "Better?" he asks.

"Thanks. But." She clams up again.

That's it? "But?"

"See, there's one reason already. I can't even manage to dry myself off."

Oh, that's what this is about. "That's an unacceptable reason for not loving someone. Besides, I liked drying you off. And I'm more than confident that you could do it yourself."

"It's too late for you to love me, Castle." She sweeps her arm downwards from her forehead to her hip. "There's nothing here to love."

Without thinking about it he strips off his wet tee shirt and uses the other dry-ish towel on himself. When he's done he shakes his head, and from the corner of his eye catches her staring at him. Gaping, more like it, and not at his face but at his chest. Making a pretense of running the towel over his head again, he can just see her gaze-gape moving to his bicep. He literally bites his tongue to prevent himself from commenting. "Ow!"

"What?"

"Nothing. Accidentally pulled my, um, hair."

"Oh."

"Gonna put on my shirt from yesterday," he says before heading to the bathroom, where he'd also hung his clothes up after their shower. "Sorry I don't have anything clean, but I'm not going out again in this weather. Why don't you change and I'll make us a fresh pot of coffee. It'll warm us up." He feels very warm as he tries not to think about the way she'd been looking at him, and remains in the bathroom until he hears her close the bedroom door.

When she emerges several minutes later, she's dressed in sweats and socks. He waves one mug towards the sofa while holding the other steady. "Let's sit down over there." When she does as he suggests he inwardly rejoices. "I want to tell you a story," he says, passing her the coffee. "I need to tell you."

After taking a few sips, he begins. "You were right about my leaving without saying anything to the boys. It was a terrible thing to do. I thought about it, and decided to drive into the city and take them to lunch to apologize."

"You're going to do that?" She's stunned. "When?"

"Already did. A couple of–. No, wait." He presses his eyes shut with his thumb and a finger. Jesus, it was less than 24 hours ago, and it feels like a century. "Yesterday. It was yesterday. Then I drove back here and that's when I." His throat constricts.

"When you found me," she says.

"Right. But listen, listen. I need you to know all of this. I told them I'd talked to you."

"You told them where I am?" She sounds panicky, and her voice rises. He can sense that she's about to jump up, so he puts his hand on her thigh.

"No, no. I didn't. Well, just that you're in the Catskills, which could be anywhere, really. It's almost six thousand square miles." He can't remember how he knows that, but he does. "I told them I'd just seen you for a little bit, got you to talk to me." He hates this shading of the truth, but he doesn't want her to freak out, and he does want her to know that he mended fences with Ryan and Esposito.

"Did you tell them I was arrested?"

"Absolutely not. Naturally they asked me how you are. They really miss you, Beckett. I said you were okay. That I thought you miss the job. Espo asked if I was going to tell you that I'd seen them and I said no, that it was between the three of us. It was, but it wasn't. I know they wouldn't mind that I'm telling you now. The point is, I wanted to make things right between them and me. I told them that I'd been angry at you about something and that I'd taken it out on them, and they hadn't deserved it. I was grateful to them for having accepted me from the beginning, almost the beginning anyway, and hoped that they'd forgive me." He shrugs as if that were the end of his story, though of course it isn't. "And they did."

"Even–"

"Even Javi? Yes. Know what he asked me?"

She shakes her head.

" 'Did Beckett forgive you?' And I said, 'We're working on it'. And we are, I hope. We are, aren't we? Because here's the important part of the story, the most important. The heart, the living, beating, breathing heart of it. I'm not a religious person, but here's something I do pray for: that you forgive me. But what I pray for a hundred times more than that? That you'll forgive yourself. Yourself, Kate. For all the things you mentioned. For letting your mother's case almost drown you. For not being able to hold on to the man who shot you, the man so key to the case. For resigning because you didn't. For not listening to Doctor Burke." He wishes that he'd prepared this speech ahead of time but he hadn't, so he keeps pushing through this emotional jungle without a machete, armed with nothing but love for Kate so deep that she's become part of his bloodstream. "You forgave your father, didn't you? A long time ago?" He has kept his eyes on her the whole time, even when she was looking at her lap. He very gently squeezes her thigh. "Didn't you?"

If he hadn't been looking intently at her, he'd have missed the almost imperceptible nod.

"You should forgive yourself for falling down, Kate."

"It's different." He can feel her muscles tighten beneath his palm. "This is different."

"Why?"

"Because my father reacted to something that was outside his control. The murder of his wife. My mother. The cops doing nothing to find out why she was killed. Worse than that, covering up why she was."

She lifts her head, and he's surprised to she that her cheeks are fiery.

"You want to know the worst thing? I judged him. Sat in judgment on my own father. I thought he was pathetic. I said I'd never do what he did. And now look. Look at me. I've done exactly what he did. Except I have no excuse. The difference is that things _were_ in my control, and I let them get away from me. All of them. I could have had Cole Maddox. If I'd been better, I would have. And I'd still be a cop instead of this." She stops, opens and closes her mouth a few times, and finally finishes with, "I could have kept seeing Burke."

That's almost as revealing as the fact that she'd willingly been his patient. "You stopped?"

"Yeah. I failed at therapy. Unbelievable, right?"

"Why did you stop?"

"Because I was getting worse."

"When?"

"After."

"After what?"

"After you left, okay?"

That knocks everything out of him. He'll let it sit until he can turn it over and look at it, let it sink in. For now he'll take a different road, lighten things up. They both need it. "I bet you were a straight-A student, weren't you?" When she doesn't respond, he answers for her. "Of course you were. Bet you aced your SATs. Bet you were captain of at least three teams."

"Two," she interjects.

"Oh, my God, only two. Disaster. You speak three languages, maybe more. I heard you swear in Polish once. Youngest woman in the NYPD to make detective. Okay. Now there's me. Kicked out of five schools. Never got benched because I never even made a team. Divorced twice from women I shouldn't have married in the first place. I'm bilingual only if you count pig Latin, in which I am luent-fay. Have you ever wondered why we're such a good team? Because we are. You know we are. It's because you're perfect and I'm not."

"C'mon, Castle, you're every bit as competitive as I am. Maybe more."

"Didn't say I wasn't competitive. I said I wasn't perfect. I fail a lot. I've gotten away with a lot because I'm funny. Remember when you called me the funniest kid in school?"

"I'm sorry. That was–"

"See? You're apologizing. Now apologize to yourself. You were right, even though that stung like hell at the time. I've found a way to succeed, in part, by being funny and imperfect. I know that some of my theories are off-the-wall, but a lot of times they carom off the wall and shake something loose. Don't they? That's the way I work. What I'm trying to say is that you're so good at virtually everything that you demand perfection of yourself. You expect it. And you can't be perfect all the time."

"Thats why you left before, isn't it? Because I wasn't perfect?"

"No. I told you. I left because you lied to me."

"But you fell out of love with me then. You can fall out of love with me again. When I screw up like this."

"Oh, Kate." He sits still for a long time, though his hand is still resting on her thigh. When he speaks again, he's quietly serious. "I wanted to fall out of love with you, but I couldn't and I can't and I won't. I was right to leave, at least for the moment, but wrong not to tell you why. I should have talked to you. You should have talked to me. All through the fall and the end of winter, right up until that day, I really thought we were getting somewhere. I really thought that you felt about me as I felt about you. And when I heard you say that you remembered everything about your shooting, which very much included my saying that I loved you, I was shattered."

He'd welcome a jolt of caffeine, but his coffee is cold. He can't lose his nerve now, not when he's gotten this far, and not when she's this low. He tries to remember a quick, calming mental exercise that his mother had taught him. After some time, time in which the air in the room felt like coal dust or some other suffocating agent, he continues. "I decided to write you out of my life, figuratively and literally. No more Nikki Heat. I've been trying to break that contract since the middle of March, without success. I haven't been able to write a single goddamn word in four months. I blamed you completely. One hundred percent your fault. And now? Now I'm glad I couldn't break that contract, because now I think can write again. It's strange, isn't it? I feel as if I can write again because I see you so much more clearly. I hate the pain you're in, I hate it. I fucking hate it. I hate that I was, am part of it. I'm not responsible for it–even in my most self-aggrandizing moments I wouldn't believe that–but I contributed to it. But I was right that we were getting somewhere before, I know I was, and I think we can again. I'm counting on it."

Through all of this part he hasn't been able to look at her. He's delivered his confession or accusation or sermon or whatever it was to the wedge of navy blue slipcover that's visible between his knees. It's past time for him to speak directly to her, so he does. She looks lost, not just in expression, but inside the baggy clothes she's wearing. "You probably won't believe me, but I love you even more now than I did before everything came crashing down." He tries to drink some coffee but nearly chokes on it. "Do you remember the time we made a list of the top fifty movies in history? It was right before last Hallowe'en. It was amazing because we had so much overlap, and we had the same number four, remember? _Some Like It Hot_. Billy Wilder. Genius. Remember?"

Does she remember? Please let her remember. It seems an eternity until she says, "yeah."

"Number four on both our lists, and it has my all-time favorite last line. I've been thinking about it a lot the last couple of days. Jack Lemmon in drag, sitting in the boat with Joe E. Brown, and he tears off his wig and says, 'I'm a man!' And Joe E. Brown says, 'Well, nobody's perfect.' And that's it. Nobody's perfect, Kate. Nobody." He stands up and looks at his hands. "I'm going–. I'm going to sit on the porch for a while. The wind died down so it's dry under the roof. I'll let you be by yourself."

He can't calculate how long he's been sitting there, trying to let his mind go nowhere, when he turns his head at the sound of her voice. She's standing on the other side of the screen door . "I'm going to read, okay? In my room. Haven't been reading lately."

"Good. That's good. Okay."

When he looks at his watch he's astonished to see that it's almost two o'clock. The rain has stopped, but it's still cool. He goes to the kitchen, makes a sandwich, and takes it, a bottle of water, and his laptop back to the porch. Damn. No Wi-Fi. There's something he's desperate to have, but he can't. He doesn't want to go into town and find a place to log on; he doesn't want to leave Kate alone.

Ah, he knows how to get it. The old-fashioned way. Have someone read it to him.

He slides into the front seat of his car and shuts the door. After retrieving a notebook and pen that he stores in the glove compartment, he phones a friend of his who works at the New York Public Library. They exchange brief pleasantries and he asks her to look something up and read it to him. A few minutes later, he's written it out on one page. He scribbles a note on another page, tears them both out, and goes back to the cabin.

She thinks she hears something rustling. Probably a squirrel on the roof. Or a bird. Except wait, it's not overhead. She's so drowsy. It stopped. It went away. She dozes and wakes, dozes and wakes. When she wakes up one more time and her mouth is dry, she rolls out of bed to get some water. She checks her phone. Five o'clock? What the hell?

And then she sees it. Paper on the floor. Castle's handwriting. He must have slipped it under the door. She doesn't dare pick it up. Is it a goodbye letter? Like the goodbye flower he left at the cemetery? She clutches her stomach as she bends over to get the paper. Papers, plural. Two pieces. She reads the first one.

"I hope you took a nap. I'm going to. This poem is by Derek Walcott, who won the Nobel Prize twenty years ago, when you were just a kid. I wish I could claim to have written it, because it's what I want you to know."

She pauses before she starts to read. Does she want to know?

"The time will come  
when, with elation  
you will greet yourself arriving  
at your own door, in your own mirror  
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.  
You will love again the stranger who was your self.  
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart  
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored  
for another, who knows you by heart.  
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,  
peel your own image from the mirror.  
Sit. Feast on your life."

Her hand is trembling when she finishes reading it, a third time, and places it on top of the chest of drawers. "Oh, Castle," she whispers, then lifts her head and looks in the mirror.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It takes her a few minutes, but she manages to get the snarls out and finally brushes her hair into submission. That accomplished, she turns the doorknob as slowly as possible and leaves her room. His car is parked out front, so he must be around, but it's so quiet that she assumes he's still napping. Not wanting to wake him, she stops at the entrance to the living room and pokes her head around the corner to see if he's asleep.

Seeing him upright, and also hearing him, startles her. She's not hearing him, really, but the tiny, rapid clicks of keystrokes. He's sitting on the sofa, bare feet propped on the makeshift coffee table, laptop on this thighs, and he's typing at a pace she could never achieve. It surprises her, even after all this time, that a man who so often appears to have the attention span of a gnat also has an Olympic ability to concentrate.

Unaccountably, she giggles. It feels good, a brief, unexpected release from–from everything bad. In fact, now that she allows herself a fraction of a second to examine her reaction, her giggling is not unaccountable at all. It's all on account of Castle.

His head snaps up. "Beckett?"

"Hi." She covers her mouth.

"Did you just giggle?"

She nods, and giggles again.

"I need to record this," he says, grabbing his phone and trying to make a video. "Garbo speaks! Beckett giggles!"

"It's because of what I thought when I saw you typing."

"My typing is superb," he says with false indignation. "I can't imagine why you're laughing at it. If you want to see lamentably risible typing, check out one-finger Esposito."

She waves her hand. "No. It's just that when I saw you so engrossed in your writing I thought how funny it was because sometimes you have the attention span of a gnat."

"Geez, thanks."

"You do. You know it. But then I realized that if I said that you'd ask, 'How long is the attention span of a gnat, anyway?' and that made me laugh."

"With great solemnity, he begins typing something on his phone. "Hmm. Hmm. Uh-huh." He clicks on a different app and types some more, then some more. He sets the phone down next to him and looks unwaveringly at her.

"I'm no entomologist, but I'd say that the attention span of a gnat is roughly seven and a half thousandths of a second."

"I should have known you'd have an answer," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "And you base this figure on what?"

"Life expectancy."

"Life expectancy?"

"Yes. The average gnat lives for a week, so I just worked this out. My life expectancy is roughly four thousand times that. If my attention span is thirty seconds–I'm sure it's much, much longer, and equally sure that you'd claim that it's much less–then a gnat's attention span is seven and a half thousandths of a second."

She regards him dubiously for a moment, and cracks up.

By the time she stops, his face is transformed by a warm, sweet smile. "I've missed that," he says. "Hearing you laugh. Experiencing your laugh."

That immediately makes her serious. "Sorry."

"Remember our conversation? No 'sorry.' Not necessary."

She looks down self-consciously. Huh. Her toenail polish is chipped; it's worn off completely on the two little toes and one other, and the remaining seven look awful. She can't recall when she last gave herself a pedicure. But her feet are not on the agenda, and more important things are. She doesn't want to make an agenda, she just wants to say something. Not the wrong something, the right. Why can't she have Castle's ease with words? She's not wishing for the Nobel Prize-winning skill of Derek Walcott, just for less agonizing. As a child, she had no problem writing or speaking. Self-expression had been as natural to her as climbing a tree or whistling or doing arithmetic in her head. She'd retained that facility even in adolescence, with the occasional lapse into silence when she had a mad crush on a boy who paid no attention to her.

It was the death of her mother that changed all that. It shocks her that she'd never made this connection before: the permanent loss of her mother, the five-year absence of her father, and her obsessive drive at work with the simultaneous erosion of self-expression. She was always fine on the job, forceful in interrogations, articulate in reports. But in her personal life, her emotional life? She's excruciatingly aware of how she has walled herself off for more than a decade, but she hadn't realized until this rare moment of self-reflection what difficulty she has in speaking freely from the heart, with no restrictions, especially when it counts. Like now.

"That, um. That was, is, a beautiful poem Castle," she begins, forcing herself not to look away while also pressing one shoulder against the wall for support. "Thank you. I wish I–. I don't think I can ever live up to it." She pauses for a while. "Maybe, I." She lets her head fall, no more able to hang on to her resolve than a sieve can hold on to water.

He hastily closes his laptop, sets it on the sofa, and in three strides is right in front of her. "I think you can, Kate. But I know that's not in my control." He fights down the urge to take her in his arms or at least to cup her chin. "I wish it were. I wish that I could wave a magic wand and you would accept yourself–love yourself, even if it's not as much as I love you." He'll stand right here until she speaks or moves or both. The wait is excruciating, but she finally reacts, raising her head.

She works her jaw in multiple ways–moving it side to side, chewing the inside of her cheek, biting her lower lip, clenching her teeth, pulling in both lips–for what seems an eternity. But there's something in her eyes that hasn't been there since the horrendous moment that he first saw her in jail. The beginning of a spark, maybe even the hint of hope. He locks onto it.

"Maybe," she repeats, as if she's picking up where she dropped off. "Maybe. I think. I think I want to go back to the city."

Where had that come from? "You mean your apartment? Move back?"

"No. No. I want to stay here. For now. But I want to see Doctor Burke. If he'll talk to me. He might never want to see me again for the rest of his life."

If he knew where the nearest church, synagogue, or shrine was, he'd drive there now, the hell with the speed limit. He'd go inside, fall to his knees, and light 1,000 candles in gratitude to a God he's not sure exists, but he needs to thank someone, and God seems a wise choice.

"That's good. That's good." Seriously? Can you not come up with something better than that, he asks himself. "And I don't believe for an instant that Doctor Burke wouldn't be happy to see you."

"Really? You think he will?"

"Positive. He'd be crazy not to."

"He's not the one who's crazy."

He'd like to laugh at that, but he's worried about how she'd take it. "Would you like to call him?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll go for a walk. Give you some space."

With that he shoves his phone in his pocket and his feet in his shoes, and goes outside. Walk? Where will he walk? What's a good place to walk? This is the countryside and he's not going into unfamiliar woods that are full of things ready to attack: brambles, bugs, poison ivy. Maybe a mountain lion. A poisonous snake. Fine, that does it. He'll just stroll down the road, it's a pretty road, for a bit. Not too long, he doesn't want to be away too long. He sets his timer for eight minutes. When it dings, he'll turn around and return to the cabin.

Two cars pass him, and he raises his hand in the universal sign for "Hello, I'm all right." He's not altogether sure that he's all right, but he's a hell of a lot better than he has been anytime in recent memory. A car coming the other way goes by, and he waves again. The timer goes off, and he reverses course. He'd like to sprint back, but keeps to a slow pace, figuring that a quarter of an hour is the least he can grant her. When he reaches the driveway, he sees her sitting on the porch.

"Hey, Beckett."

He said hey. It lifts her heart to hear that. "Hey, Castle." It sounds both odd and comfortingly familiar to say it.

When he's on the second step he asks, "So?"

"I left him a voicemail. And then he called back. I was kind of nervous when I saw his name on the screen."

Understanding the feeling, he nods.

"He said he had a cancellation and could see me tomorrow morning at eleven."

"How about if I drive you?"

"Absolutely not."

"I'm not going to your appointment with you, Beckett. Just offering you a lift. It's–." He moves his finger across the screen of his phone. "It's going to be almost ninety here tomorrow, which means the city will be much hotter. And humid. You really want to ride your motorcycle in that, instead of in an air-conditioned car with buttery-leather seats?"

"I guess not."

"Good guess." He's probably pushing his luck, but he'll give it a try. "You must be starving. How about I take you to dinner?" Uh, oh. She looks like a rabbit, set to take off. Even the slowest one can run 25 miles an hour. He'd never catch her.

"In Berryville? I can't go there."

Okay, that he can deal with; Berryville is out. "I don't want to go there, either. I'll find us another place."

"How?"

"My lawyer. The one I called before, for, you know. He, er, has a weekend place nearby. I'll ask him for a recommendation."

Before she can object, he phones. "Hi, Steve. It's Rick." Pause. "Mmhmm." Pause. "Good. Okay, uh, thanks again for Tim Eckley. Great guy. Listen, I'm up in your neck of the woods visiting a friend. Could you suggest somewhere to eat? Nothing fancy, you should see what I'm wearing. But somewhere good."

He ends the call not long after, and smiles. "Says he won't charge me for the restaurant recommendation. Good thing, too, or I'd never give his wife another signed book. How do you feel about farm-to-table?"

"Sure. Sounds nice."

"We don't have to change clothes, either. If I had overalls, I could probably wear those. They'll have to take me in jeans and a rumpled shirt."

The place isn't far, only three towns away. They eat outside, choosing a table for two rather than the congenial, communal picnic table that he feels would overwhelm her. "How great is this," he says, holding up a small bottle that's next to a pair of salt and pepper grinders. "Organic insect repellent. And check out the name! Safari Strength Bug Mace. If it works I might have to buy stock in the company."

"Safari strength, huh?"

"That's what it says. There might be mountain lions on the prowl, maybe only a hundred yards away. They're waiting for it to get totally dark before they pounce. I don't know about you, but this stuff makes me feel a lot safer."

She leans in to read the label on the bottle. "It says that it repels 'mosquitoes, ticks, biting flies, gnats, no-see-ums, chiggers, ants, and fleas.' Nothing about mountain lions."

"Yeah, well, mountain lions are no-see-ums until they sink their fangs into you."

Dinner is even better than Steve had promised, in part because he's so happy to be sitting down with her, and seeing her eat a relatively good amount. They talk mostly about the food, and what it takes to be a farmer in the the 21st century. By the time he's paid the bill, the sun has set. Crossing the parking lot she says, "Good thing we're getting out of here before it's night, ahead of those predatory cats."

It occurs to him, when she mentions night, that he still has a room at the Holiday Inn in Berryville, and he's glad that he paid for a week in advance, even if he's hardly used it. He'd just as soon they didn't hurl his bag out for nonpayment. He's still anxious about leaving her on her own, and when they walk back into the cabin he says, "Would you mind if I sleep on the sofa? We're going to have to leave early because of rush hour, and I didn't sleep much last night."

"Sure. I mean, fine. That's fine. Do you want to use the bathroom first?"

"Okay. Thanks." Suddenly everything feels so awkward, but he tries to appear casual as he walks through the living room. Once he's in the bathroom, he brushes his teeth, washes his face, and looks in the mirror. "Here goes," he mumbles. "Doctor Burke. Here goes."

He opens the door and heads straight for the couch. "Bathroom's all yours, Beckett. Thanks for letting me crash."

"You're welcome." She looks very young and very bashful in that instant. "Thanks, Castle. Sleep tight."

"You, too," he says. He falls asleep before he even hears her close her door.

Morning is a scramble because she wants to look her best for Burke. She brought nothing fancy with her, but she does have a pair of linen pants and a jersey and some nice sandals. "This'll have to do," she says nervously.

"You look great," he assures her.

They've been on the road for half an hour when he slows and puts on his blinker.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"Dunkin' Donuts. They have great coffee. I'll just run in. Be right back."

He might have to light at least 100 more candles: Carol Ann no E, the Blessed Angel of Dunkin' Donuts, is behind the counter. "Good morning," he says.

"You sound cheerful, Rick."

"That's because I am." He bounces on his toes. "I am, Canoe."

"Canoe?"

"C for Carol, A for Ann, NO for no, E for e. Canoe. My favorite kind of boat."

"Uh huh." She arches one eyebrow. "So, you reel in that fish, that woman, in Berryville? Reel her into your canoe? That why you're so cheerful?"

"Haven't reeled her in, but things are better. And a latte with vanilla for her will make things even better than that. Regular coffee for me, please. Oh, and two doughnuts."

"Glazed?"

"Of course."

"My kind of man. Don't know why she's not in the boat with you yet."

In the boat with him. In the Love Boat with him. Oh, give him an inch and he's miles and miles and miles ahead of himself. "I have hopes," he says, and grins.

Carol Ann puts the drinks in a cardboard holder, drops the doughnuts into a wax-paper bag, and hands them to him. "Sweets for the sweet," she says, and winks.

"Thank you." He pushes a $20 across the counter. "Don't give me any change," he cautions. "Remember what I told you about my mother. Good tipping's in my DNA."

"Thank you. Bring her in some day."

"I just might. Thanks again. See you soon.""I'm counting on it."

"Me, too," he says as he pushes the door open.

When he gets in the car he puts her latte and his coffee in the cup holders, and passes the bag to Beckett.

"Quite the chat you were having in there," she says while he buckles up. "Have a doughnut."

"Nice woman," he replies, and takes a bite to prevent himself from saying more.

Once they're in Manhattan and on their down the West Side Highway, Beckett gives him Burke's address.

"I'll wait for you."

"No way, Castle. No."

"I don't mean inside. I mean outside. On the street. So we can go straight back, okay?"

"Okay."

By the time he delivers her to 77th and West End she's so tense that she looks as if she's about to break into pieces. He touches her knee lightly as he pulls to the curb. "You're all right, Kate. You're all right."

She looks despairingly at him, slips out of the car, and walks into the building. He checks the parking sign. Another cause for rejoicing: he can stay here for an hour, just when she should be coming out.

The air in the car quickly becomes stifling, but he's reluctant to leave. What if she bolts? He thinks she won't, but she could. There's a tree offering some shade just a few feet away, and he stands under it for a while, compulsively checking and rechecking his watch. When she's been in there almost 40 minutes, he decides to risk a dash to the Starbucks that's only a few blocks away. He's back with a couple of iced coffees in less than ten, amused to see that the barista had written ROCK on the lid of his cup, and gets back in the car, opening all the windows to let in some air. Now he's compulsively checking and rechecking the side mirror, in which he can see the entrance to Burke's building. Yes. Yes yes yes yes, here she comes. With no time to jump out and walk around to open her door, he stretches to the right and opens it from inside.

She's almost frighteningly pale, but at least not ghostlike. "You okay?" he asks gently.

"Yeah." She folds her hands in her lap. "I told him." She sounds exhausted but somehow relieved.

"Told him what?"

"That I'm a drunk."

TBC

 **A/N** Happy Passover and Happy Easter to those who celebrate either (or both!). And to those who observe neither, have a happy weekend.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She's leaning her head against the window, eyes shut. He's looking intently at her, trying to decide what to do or to say. He's unused to being at a loss for words, but he's never been in this situation before, or anything nothing remotely like it. He's crossed the border into an unknown country where he's uncertain of the customs, hasn't been briefed on the protocol, and can't find his passport. The only thing he's sure of is this: he shouldn't ask, "What did Burke say when you told him?" even though he's desperate to do it. If he knew, it would help him navigate in this new territory.

Instead, he asks hesitantly, "Is there anything you want to do while we're here? Or are you ready to head back?" When she shakes her head he doesn't know which question she's answering, the first or the second.

"Thought you might be thirsty. Because you know, you were–uh, and it's so hot. I got you an iced coffee." He's floundering. "It's in your cup holder." Oh, brilliant. Like she couldn't figure that out on her own.

"That's really sweet," she says, opening her eyes and looking sideways at him, shyly. "Thank you. For the drink, and the driving." She grimaces. "Not that kind of drinking and driving." She turns her attention to the cup. "No straw, huh?"

"Sorry. Alexis is on a kick about not using straws, their bad impact on the environment, and she's right. I had to wean myself off them."

"I bet when you were a kid you blew bubbles in your milk with one, right? And shot the paper wrapper across the school cafeteria?"

He chuckles. "True. Even as an adult. I freely admit that I hit Esposito in the shoulder with a straw wrapper last winter, the morning after the precinct Christmas party. I think his reflexes were a little off because he was–." Oh, shit, he really needs to think before he opens his big mouth.

"It's okay, Castle. You can say it. Because Espo was hungover. Believe me, I'm familiar with the feeling."

"Sorry."

"You keep telling me to stop saying that. Same goes for you." She picks up her cup and pops open the tab on the plastic lid so that she can take a few sips. "That's good," she says, licking the corner of her mouth. "Not as good as bourbon, but good."

He grips the steering wheel as hard as he can to try to keep himself from commenting. Or worse, freaking out. Although if he did, there's a psychiatrist handy, just eleven flights up. Apparently he hasn't achieved the façade of calmness that he'd hoped for, because she taps him on the wrist.

"Castle? Don't panic."

"Okay."

"You look worried." She presses her hands against the dashboard as if for support. "I want to want not to drink, okay? That's what I talked about a lot with Burke. That may not sound like much to you, but it is to me. It's a big step for me. It doesn't mean that I'm not thinking about booze, you know? I have to deal with that. Cope with that. I want to be able to say, 'I want not to drink.' That's what I'm fighting for, that's the next part of the battle, and it's really hard when I'm so screwed up and running on empty."

He's aching to say _I can help you, I want to help you refill your life. I want to do that_. But he can't. She's not ready and there's so much that she has to do on her own. What he does say is, "If I can do anything for you, and I mean anything, you'll tell me, right?"

She stares ahead for a long time before answering. "Would you be willing to drive me here again day after tomorrow, please? Doctor Burke says he can see me at seven, and I'm not crazy about riding my motorcycle back in the dark."

"Yes, I would. I would be happy to, more than happy." He takes a slug of his own coffee to steady his nerves, not so far gone that he doesn't realize the inanity of thinking that caffeine is an agent of serenity. "Where to now?"

"Back upstate, please. This session pretty much wiped me out."

She's asleep by the time they hit the West Side Highway, and he pulls over on the shoulder to take the coffee from her hand before one of the road's lunar-surface potholes sends it sloshing all over her.

Throughout the drive to Berryville he tries to let his mind wander, and not dwell on Beckett and Burke, but it's not possible. He begins to sketch a plan for the remainder of the summer. To persuade her to let him stay up there with her while she gets her feet back on the ground. Not if, while. He was right not to give up on her, he feels it. He's hungry–the nutritional value of a doughnut being what it is, basically nil–but he drives straight to the cabin. There's still some food there.

When he turns the engine off she finally stirs. "Oh. We're here."

"Yup." He's about to say "home, sweet home," but thinks better of it. "Did you have a good nap?"

"Yeah. Thank you. I guess I needed it."

"I guess you did." As he walks behind her onto the porch he asks hopefully, "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat."

No wonder she has minus ten percent body fat. I could eat? Geez. "Good, there's some stuff in the fridge. I'll make lunch."

When they've finished and he's deeply regretting not having bought ice cream, he mentally squares his shoulders. "So. Beckett. I've been thinking." He wants to see if she takes the bait. After a somewhat weighted interval, she does.

"About?"

"About staying up here for a while, too. It reminds me of summer camp, but fortunately with indoor plumbing and no lanyard making. I was lonely in the Hamptons and I can't stand the city in the hot weather. I'd enjoy the company, and I'm vain enough to think that you might enjoy mine at least a little. Plus you could use a chef. I'd make sure you eat three squares a day." He points to her not entirely empty plate. Two, at least."

She looks shell-shocked. "In the cabin? You're going to stay in the cabin?"

"No, no." He waves his hand. "I'll visit here, but I have a comfortingly familiar room at the Holiday Inn–familiar in that it looks exactly like every Holiday Inn room I've ever stayed in, which, granted is not all that many, but still. It lacks the rustic charm of this place, but it has a king-size bed, A/C, wi-fi, cable TV, and maid service. Oh, and a pool." He pushes his chair back, starts to clear the table, and says cheerfully, "Want to think it over while I do the dishes?"

He's washing a glass when he senses that she's standing right behind him. "Stop doing that." His stomach drops and he knows that he has to face it. Face her. Face that he has seriously overstepped whatever it is. He turns around, expecting to find her nostrils flaring. Instead, she has one hand out. "Hand me that sponge, please. The cleaning up is my job, Castle. If you're the cook."

"Chef."

"Chef."

Does that mean yes? He can stay? It must be a yes. She said that she was the cleaner-upper, offered it without his even having hinted at it. He'd celebrate with the world's largest ice-cream sundae if 1) she had any ice cream and 2) it didn't seem inappropriate. Except that in his mind ice cream is appropriate for every occasion. But he has to be cool, even cooler than ice cream.

To resist all manner of temptation, verbal and physical, he goes outside and sits on the edge of the porch, swinging his feet. Because he is cooler than cool, he doesn't keep track of how long he's there, wishing that she'd join him. However long it is, was, he stood it, and here she is, standing just to the side of him, her left kneecap roughly parallel to his right shoulder. He sees a muscle twitch in her calf. It's so sexy that he almost passes out, which probably have been preferable to what he really wanted to do, which was to put his hand around her ankle.

"Hi," he says, briefly tipping his head back so he can see all of her, not just her delectable knee, calf, and foot. And toes. And arch. She has one hell of an arch. He wonders if that's a help or a hindrance when she wears those death-defying heels she favors. Does she ever feel like her foot might pop out of a shoe? Her arch is so high that when she has on this one pair of navy blue heels with low-cut sides he can see a bit of the underside of her arch, the sole of her foot. It's unbelievably erotic. Does she know that? He's only seen that twice, but each time it fed his imagination for days. Apparently it still is.

"Castle?"

"Yeah?"

"Is there something wrong with my foot?"

What the hell, is she reading his mind? If she is, does she think he's some pervy foot fetishist? Because he's not. It's just her particular foot. And everything attached to it. "Your foot? No, nothing wrong."

"You were staring at it."

"I was? Must have been daydreaming or something."

She scrunches up her face. "Um, about. About before."

Uh, oh. She's changed her mind. She won't let him stick around to be chef or anything else. Except wait, she's bending her knees and now she's sitting on the porch floor, too. Not close enough that they're touching, but she's there. Here. She's here. His brain has made so many sharp turns in the last few minutes that he's exhausted. "What about before?"

"In the car. What I said. What I told Doctor Burke."

"Mmhmm." A wordless response seems better, and certainly more judicious, than anything he can think of at the moment

"I know you must really want to ask me about my session and I really appreciate that you didn't."

"Well, it's private. I mean, doctor-patient. I wouldn't. It's–I know it's confidential."

"Would it help," she asks, once again addressing her lap instead of him, "if I said that if I were going to discuss it with anyone it would be you?"

Is it possible for a human heart to explode when the brain of the same human receives news like this? "Yes. I'd be honored. If you ever did. But to tell me. That means a lot."

"I can't now. Yet. I want to sometime, if I can. If I can do it."

He is immediately reminded of her _I want to not want to drink_. He risks putting his hand over hers. He needs the contact and he thinks that she might, too. "That's enough for me." He waits for her to raise her head, and when she does he smiles, squeezes her hand, but doesn't let go.

They sit in silence for a long time, long enough for the sun to have moved behind the cabin. When he feels a slight movement against his upper arm, he at first thinks it's the breeze, but then realizes that it's her hair. She is very lightly resting the side of her head against the indentation between his triceps and his deltoid.

"Castle. Do you know what I'd be doing right now if you weren't here? Making myself a drink. If I got up this minute, went inside, and came back out with a drink, what would you do?"

He is stunned by the question, and by her directness. He has to be just as direct. "I don't know. I know what I'd think, but not what I'd do."

"Would you leave?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Would you be angry?"

"No."

"Then what would you think?"

"How sad I am. Sad that this is what you feel you have to do. That it's the only way."

"Would you try to stop me?"

"No."

"Okay."

She gets to her feet and walks inside. He has seldom been this terrified, and he's not sure that he can quell the shivering that has taken over his entire body, inside and out. He thinks he heard the refrigerator door open. Maybe a crackling sound. It's ice. Shit, she's getting ice. He wants to jump up and grab her and scream NO; he wants to jump up and run as far away as he can until the light gives out and so do his lungs. He wants anything but this.

"Here."

Ice rattling against the side of a glass is a sound he could identify even as a toddler. She must have seen him shudder.

"It's lemonade, Castle," she says calmly, passing one glass to him and holding on to the other. "I wish it weren't, and I'm glad it's not. I'm going to say something, before I lose my nerve. Do you remember what I said about Captain Montgomery? At his funeral, right before I got shot?"

He has no clue where she's going, but he's listening. He nods.

"I said that he taught me that we're more than our mistakes. That for us there's no victory, only battles, and the best you could for is a place to make your stand." You remember?"

Does he remember? The only way he'll forget is if he's dead. He nods again.

"And then I said that if you're very lucky you find someone willing to stand with you."

He hears ice again, and sees that her hand is shaking so hard that it's making the cubes rattle. He reaches over, takes her lemonade, and sets it on the floor.

"I never got to finish that speech, you know? But it's been living in my head for more than a year. Sometimes it whispers to me, sometimes it yells. Sometimes I don't hear it for weeks. But the last couple of days it's been following me everywhere. I feel as if I have nothing. I've wrecked everything and am left with nothing."

"Kate, we've–"

She puts her hand up and shakes her head. "Please, I have to get through this. You gave up on me, and I know why. But you came back. I don't understand it, but you did. I have to fight a battle I never saw coming, an enemy I thought I'd never have to face down. Not me. Not tough-as-nails Katherine Beckett." She folds her arms tight across her chest and looks to the road, as if she were searching for something invisible, around the corner. "I'm unarmed, and I have to fight alone. You can't do battle with me. But you are standing with me. I see that now and I am so grateful for that. I feel as if I have something now, at the end. If I can fight myself, if I can fight for myself, to get back, to fix things, to make something from nothing. To know that if I can, that you will be here. That you love me. That's what I'm hanging on to. I want you to understand what that means to me." She turns her head back to him, her eyes filled with tears and with what he hopes is the beginning of hope.

TBC

 **A/N** I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. Thank you all for the support that means more than you can imagine.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** / Three-week time jump.

That's the rose-breasted grosbeak she says to herself, listening to the long, sweet call shortly after sunrise. It's August 8th, and the days are beginning to get noticeably shorter. She's lying on her side in bed, not ready to get up, and waiting for another bird song that she's learned to recognize over the past couple of weeks. There's one, she thinks, pleased when she identifies a wood thrush's flutey solo.

It immediately sends her back to the walk in the woods that she and Castle had taken yesterday when he kept complaining about the mosquitoes.

"Why didn't I buy that Safari Strength Bug Mace? I don't know why the mosquitoes don't eat you, Beckett. I'm sure you're much tastier than I am. And juicier." And then he'd snorted and said, "Oops."

Against her better judgment, she'd laughed. "Listen," she'd said as she stopped in the middle of the narrow path. "Hear that? It's a black-billed cuckoo. My favorite."

"Are you kidding? It should be mine. I must be seriously cuckoo to have let you talk me into this nature hike." He'd swatted his neck. "See? Another bite. This is more like a death march. I won't have any blood left by the time we get back to the cabin. You'll have to take me somewhere for a transfusion."

"I don't know how you survive the urban jungle," she'd said.

"By staying largely indoors in a climate-controlled, pest-free environment, that's how."

She'd humored him by turning around at the next stand of pine trees and heading home.

Wait, wait, wait. Home? She sits straight up in bed, the sheet sliding to her lap. She's thinking of this place as home? How can that be? She likes the simplicity of it, the rough edges. She has plenty of rough edges herself. But the only things here that belong to her are some clothes, a laptop, a phone, and a few books. She doesn't even have her own mug or a throw pillow or a photograph. There's nothing she's remotely attached to, and yet it's home? She covers her face. Oh, yes, there is. There's something here that she's more attached to with every new breath; not something, but someone. Castle. It's Castle who makes this home, and she can't examine that too closely yet, not yet.

She pushes herself out of bed and goes to make coffee. He won't be here for at least an hour and a half. Somewhere between eight and nine every morning he arrives, full of ideas about breakfast. He'll be on the early side today because they're driving into the city for her appointment with Dr. Burke.

It's been two weeks. Two weeks since she forced herself to get in touch with Burke, to come clean with him, to work with him again. The work now is so much harder than it was before. The first time she'd gone to his office, almost a year ago, she'd had a chip on her shoulder the size of a dinner plate. She didn't need a therapist, didn't want one. The brass made her do it. Department regs. But she'd quickly found that she did need one, did want one.

What they'd focussed on then–before she'd fallen to pieces in the spring and cancelled all her sessions–was her letting go. She was getting there, too, until she wasn't. What had happened in the interim, since she'd come up here, is that she'd let go, but in a different, punishing, self-indulgent, self-destructive way. She'd lost control of her self-control in a way that she'd never anticipated. She has no job. No job to go back to even if she stops drinking. So why stop? Because, as Burke helps remind her–and so does Castle, 14 hours a day, though he never mentions her drinking–there are other things to do and to delight in. Bird calls, for one. Who knew? Maybe she should she go back to school and become an ornithologist. No. She'll never mention that to Castle, even as a joke; she'd never hear the end of it. She looks out the window as she takes her first sip of coffee; it's raining, and she doesn't see any of her avian amigos, as Castle calls them. ("That's about the extent of my Spanish, Beckett, and avian is English.") The birds are quiet in this weather.

Today is a work day. Every day is a work day, even without a job. Maybe especially without a job. She's working on not defining herself as anything other than an ex-cop. She's working on not obsessing over having let Maddox escape. She's working on letting Castle in. She's working on how to let him know what he means to her. That she loves him even though she's not worthy of it. She's working on that as hard as on anything.

She's working on a life without alcohol.

She wants that to be possible. Every day is so damn difficult, like acid in her chest. Her old life is gone, and where will she find a new one? How? If she could get her footing in one part of her life, could she set the rest of it in order?

If she had a drink, she wouldn't have to think about any of this. If she had a drink, she wouldn't have to question herself endlessly.

If she had a drink she'd be an even worse failure than she already is. She can't have a drink. It's the late evening that's toughest, when Castle has left and she's on her own. When he's here, he keeps her distracted, entertained, fed, occasionally annoyed, and often amused. When he's not, he still distracts her, without his knowing it, and it does help. On a couple of hot, sticky days she's seen him without his shirt, and the sight made her considerably hotter. His shoulders and upper arms are impossibly muscular, and his chest! God, almighty. You could crack an egg on it, and yet the skin, which has only a fine dusting of hair, is silky as a baby's. She knows this because she has accidentally come in contact with it once or twice. Okay, not accidentally. It was such a turn-on that she had to not-so-accidentally excuse herself for her manufactured coughing fit. She'd gone to sleep last night thinking about that torso, about how easily he could have carried her to bed, about how they would feel skin-to-skin. How his powerful legs, which she has ogled from behind on days when he's wearing shorts, could wrap around her, could hold her up against a wall, could–. The thought of it compelled her to squeeze her own legs together, and she has to do so again now, just at the memory of the fantasy.

She shakes her head as if she were trying to get water out of her ear. She can't stay in the fantasy world; she needs to cope with the real one, and she needs more than Castle to do that. While she'd been in Burke's waiting room day before yesterday, she'd done some quick and useful research, and today she'll act on it, if she has the guts. She's not going to tell Castle, at least not right away. He deserves to know, but not until she's started.

He parks directly in front of the porch steps only minutes after she's showered and dressed.

"Morning, Beckett," he calls as he opens the screen door.

"Morning, Sir Walter. That's a hell of an umbrella you have. Guess you won't have to put your overcoat across a puddle for me."

"Much too warm for a coat. Besides, if we share an umbrella you have to hang on to my arm. Total fantasy fulfillment."

Fantasy fulfillment? If only he knew what she'd been fantasizing about an hour ago.

They chat easily on the way to Manhattan, even though her stomach is a wreck. When he lets her out at Burke's building he asks her what he always does: "Do you want to do anything here before we go back?" For the first time the answer is yes.

"I have something to do, right after my appointment. It's in the neighborhood. I'll be done at one."

"Want me to drive you? Even if it's nearby you'll get soaked."

"No, that's fine. I have a little fold-up umbrella in my bag."

"You positive?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me where and I'll pick you up."

Oh, God, no. "Why don't we meet at the Fairway Cafe at one fifteen? You know, upstairs from the market? We can have lunch. My treat. And you can shop for whatever gourmet essentials you've been pining for lately."

"Deal."

"Thanks, Castle." She gets out of the car before he can question her.

Her session with Burke goes reasonably well, though as usual she uses half a box of Kleenex. She tells him what she's planning to do, and much of their talk is about that.

The ten-block walk is a nightmare, not because of the horrible weather but because of her trepidation, yet she allows herself a tiny bit of pride for taking the step.

When she reaches the church she takes the stairs to the basement and immediately sees a circle of chairs, most already occupied, and a table with the requisite coffee urn, cups, a box with several packages of sugar and sweetener, and a container of milk. She sits on one of the metal folding chairs. If someone pointed to a chart and asked her how she felt, on a scale of one to ten, she'd answer, "I'm off the chart. At least a fifteen. You don't have the emoticon, but it would be Edvard Munch's painting _The Scream_."

A few fraught minutes later a bearded 30-something guy in jeans and a polo shirt stands up. "Hi, I'm Andrew, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Andrew," everyone but her says.

"Is anyone here in their first twenty-four hours of not drinking?"

No one in the room raises a hand. She finally finds the courage to blurt out, "Three hundred fifty-one hours." Every head turns her way; no one looks either surprised or appalled. "I counted," she adds sheepishly. "That's sick, I know."

There are more than a dozen people there, and all of them crack up. One woman checks her phone and volunteers, "Sixteen thousand nine hundred twenty-four." Everyone laughs again.

"What's that in sobriety time, Danielle?" Andrew asks.

"One year, eleven months, two weeks, a day, and four hours."

"You're almost a toddler, Danielle," the woman to her left says.

"Toddler?" Beckett hadn't intended to ask; the question had escaped on its own.

"That's what Janet calls someone who's been sober for two years," Danielle explains.

Janet turns to her and smiles. "Don't mind me. I'm just a numbers freak. Don't worry if you're calculating hour-by-hour. Not sick at all. It's healthy. Three hundred fifty-one, right? So you're on what, day fifteen? Good for you."

If she hadn't been so nice Beckett would have been tempted to flee. Danielle hasn't had a drink in almost two years and she keeps count like that? If she manages to stay off the bottle, will there ever be a day when she doesn't know exactly how long it's been?

That sobering thought aside–and she nearly chuckles at the adjective that she'd inadvertently chosen–the meeting makes her feel better. Despite Castle's astonishing and loving support, she has been alone in this part of her life, and now she isn't. The intellectual area of her brain has long understood that her father had had a similar experience, but the emotional area had refused to consider it until now.

When the meeting ends she shakes some hands and sets out on her short walk. Castle is waiting for her in the cafe. He smiles and squeezes her elbow. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She hopes that sounded less shaky than it felt.

A server shows them to a table all the way in the back, by the window, and she's glad for the relative privacy. Castle must sense that she's craving quiet, and doesn't say anything except, "I warn you that I might choose the most expensive thing here since you're buying."

"I think the priciest item at lunch is about twenty-five bucks, Castle, so do your best."

When the server returns for their order she says, "You go first. I'm still thinking."

He orders a turkey burger with everything, which in his case means Swiss cheese, mushrooms, tomato, a side of cole slaw, sweet potato fries, and a ginger ale.

"I'll have cinnamon toast and a chocolate milkshake, please."

The server does not comment; Castle does. "That's your lunch?"

"Well, I didn't have breakfast."

"So, it's your breakfast _and_ your lunch?"

"Yes." She knows how much not asking is contrary to his nature, so she gives him some relief. "It's comfort food, Castle. My two favorite kinds."

"Okay. That's good." He straightens his knife and fork, and examines the salt and pepper shakers as if they were precious relics from an ancient site. "Umm. So you need comfort right now?"

"Kind of."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Maybe."

"Would this have anything to do with Burke, or, you know, where you went afterwards?"

She nods. She doesn't want to cry, even in the semi-private corner.

"You don't have to tell me, Beckett. I can wait."

"Okay." She swallows hard and whispers, "I went to an AA meeting."

After a long silence he whispers back, "I'm proud of you," slides his hand across the table to hers, turns it over, and kisses her palm.

He doesn't say another word about it, not at lunch or on the trip home. By the time they reach Berryville it's getting on for five, and the sun is out. "Want to come to my motel?" he asks as the approach the cabin. "This is a gentlemanly question. I thought you might like to go for a swim in the pool."

"That'd be nice. I'll just grab my suit."

Grab her suit? She's not sure she even brought one, but finds it in her bottom drawer. It's not a bikini because she's shy about anyone seeing her scars. Instead it's the lightweight one-piece Speedo she wears to swim laps at the gym. She stuffs it in her bag and returns to the car.

"All set?"

"All set." Being in the water turns out to be restorative and calming, even when–after everyone else has left–Castle decides to cannonball next to her a few times. She knows that he's watching her, even though she's not in a bikini. When she dives underwater she allows herself to wonder what he'd look like in a Speedo.

Back at the cabin, they cook a late dinner. She's just finished the dishes when he gets up from the sofa and stretches. "I'm calling it a night, Beckett. See you tomorrow."

She folds the towel in half and hangs it on the oven door handle. "Castle?" she asks hesitantly and looks up at him.

"Mmhmm?"

"Could I ask you a favor?"

"Sure."

"This was a diff–.This was a really emotional day for me. Would you mind staying here tonight?"

"Of course not." He turns to the corridor and gets bedding from the closet.

"Stop," she says as he settles a sheet over the sofa. "You're too tall for this to be comfortable. I want you to go sleep in the bed. I'll stay here. Besides, I'll probably wake up in the night and want to wander around out here."

"Really?"

"Really. Let me go change the sheets for you."

He puts his hand up. "No need. You're exhausted. I'll do it. Glad I left a toothbrush here. I'll just take care of my teeth and the joint is yours. Okay?"

"Okay, thank you. Really. Thank you."

When he's safely in her room and has shut the door, he doesn't change the sheets. The idea of sleeping where she sleeps, of sleeping in a place that smells of her, is irresistible.

Although he's a sound sleeper, he's also a father who has spent eighteen years half listening for his child, even when he's out cold. At some point, he doesn't know when, he wakes because there's a sudden if slight dip in the mattress, followed by the warmth of another human being next to him, not touching but very close. He stays as still as he can for several minutes, until he feels her measured breathing. He reaches behind him, takes Beckett's hand, and draws it gently across his chest. She doesn't stir.

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you again for joining me on this bumpy road.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

He wakes slowly, and then with a start, improbable as it seems. When he was drifting into consciousness, he was aware of the essence of her, the warmth of her, but when he opened his eyes she wasn't there. She was only a phantom presence. How had he not known when she'd left the bed? Had he let go of her hand while they slept, or had she slipped hers out of his and then slipped away? Had it still been dark then, or had the sun already come up?

Or had it been a dream? He couldn't bear that. He rubs his hands down the scruff of his cheeks, and realizes that he's still wearing his watch. It's already eight? He gets up, opens the door and peeks out. He neither hears nor sees her, so he steps into the bathroom. When he's through, he walks into the empty living room, then out onto the porch. Where the hell is she? He feels his heart rate accelerate.

It's insane to panic. Useless. She's a grown woman. She can take care of herself. Or not. Lately, not. Not completely, anyway. He cocks his head, but hears none of Beckett's favorite birdcalls, no cars going by on the blacktop at the end of the short drive–nothing except the erratic, deafening pulse in his ears. He jumps off the porch, runs around the side of the house, and stumbles to a stop. She's standing on her head on the small, weedy patch of grass. Her back is to him, so she must not be aware that he's there. At least five minutes go by. How long can she hold this pose? He'd have passed out long ago–assuming he could manage to stand on his head at all, an assumption he doesn't make. Finally she comes back down, but moves fluidly into another pose that he can't name but can unreservedly admire. It's one thing to know that she does yoga, quite another to witness it.

To his surprise, he suddenly feels like a voyeur, as if he is watching, without permission, an intimate act. On the verge of sneaking away, he pauses. Is what Beckett's doing any more intimate than what she did last night, crept into bed with him? And if she'd regretted that, wouldn't she have taken off? He decides to stay.

She sits cross-legged and then unfolds until she's lying on her back. When she performs some invisible move–he can't figure out how she does it–her entire torso undulates gently, and it's so sensuous that he almost falls to his knees. She lies completely still for a few minutes, her eyes closed, then rolls onto her side and eases herself up.

"Wow," he says, no longer able to keep quiet.

She startles just a bit. "Oh. Castle." Her face softens into radiance. "Hi."

It reminds him of first-morning-after shyness, except that sex had not preceded this morning after. But last night's non sex? Unforgettable. Indelible. Eternal.

"Want coffee?" he asks over brightly, because he's afraid to say what he really wants to say and he's not at all sure if she knows that he knows that she slept–literally–with him only hours ago.

"Yeah. That would be nice. I'm going to, um, shower first."

"Okay."

As soon as he hears the bathroom door shut he goes into high gear, first putting on the coffee and then assembling the ingredients he needs for pancakes. He knows that he bought the essentials–butter, eggs, milk, flour, vanilla–but he's not positive about the maple syrup because he hadn't had pancakes in mind when he'd gone shopping. He pulls open a cabinet door: yes, there it is, a cute little jug from Vermont and an equally cute one from Canada. Now he remembers: he couldn't decide, so of course he'd bought both. A taste test is always a good idea. Imperative for good cooking. Condiments–is syrup a condiment?–are as important as anything. Whatever syrup is, and it's probably not a condiment, he wants the best of it. While the first batch of pancakes is bubbling in the pan, he puts both jugs on the table.

"It smells fantastic in here," Beckett says as she emerges, dressed in shorts, tee shirt, and flip-flops. As he crosses the room, two plates in hand, he's chagrined to realize that he's wearing virtually the same thing, except that his shorts are, well, underwear. Boxers. Too late now. When he sets breakfast in front of her she claps her hands together. "Pancakes. Yum. What's the occasion?"

Maybe it was the shorts that did it–hers as well as his–but he answers with what's crowding everything out of his mind, including what he'd intended to say, which was something on the order of, "Because it's a beautiful morning." Instead he announces, "It's a celebration."

What other response could she make than this? "What are we celebrating?"

This time he's prepared to make up a believable reason, and just as he's going to deliver it he thinks what the hell. She's being brave and straightforward about things, and this particular eggshell–that they shared a bed–is one he's decided not to walk quietly on. "Geez," he says.

"Geez?"

"I just came up with the worst unvoiced metaphor. Plus I ended it with a preposition." He pulls out his chair and sits down. "I'm a writer. I should be ashamed."

"You're being awfully hard on yourself this early in the day," she says and smiles. "Time to celebrate, right?"

"Yes." He smiles back. "The thing is, I am in awe of what you did yesterday. Not just going to an AA meeting, but telling me. And then, when I was about to leave last night, asking if I'd mind staying. All those things take an enormous amount of strength."

She stares down at her pancakes, a small stack surrounded by a moat of syrup.

"Hey, hey, Kate. Look at me, please."

Self-consciously, she raises her head.

"I'm proud for you and I'm proud of you. And what really filled my heart? Your getting in bed with me last night."

"You _knew_?" She looks horrified. "I thought you were asleep."/

"I wanted you to think that. I was afraid that if you saw that I was awake you'd freak out and leave, which is the last thing I wanted." She's still at the table, so that's something, but it's clear that she's struggling with herself. "That took a lot of strength, too, to come in. I think maybe you wanted, craved, comfort? And I was here so I was it. I'm ecstatic that I was it."

"I should be strong enough to be on my own, Castle."

"You are. But remember what you said to me? That I'm standing with you? When you need time to be alone, and I know that you do, I'll give it to you. But none of us should be alone twenty-four-seven. And if you had night terrors, or something I hope less horrible, then you shouldn't have been alone. If I was the human equivalent of a comfort blankie, I'm happy."

Her gaze is steady now. "You're a lot more than a comfort blankie." She pauses, and he can almost see her backbone straighten, even though she hasn't moved. "When I woke up, we were holding hands. I don't know if you took my hand or I took yours while we were asleep, do you?"

They're warming up, but the pancakes are getting cold, and he needs the fuel. "I'll tell you in a minute. Let's eat now, okay?"

" 'kay."

She speaks first, for which he gives her silent props. "These are really good."

"You like 'em?"

"Love them."

The tip of her tongue flicks at the corner of her upper lip, finds a drop of syrup, and disappears. He fleetingly wonders if she'd tried the Vermont or the Canadian, and unfleetingly wonders when he'll get to see that delectable tongue tip again. "Would you like some more?"

"Not yet."

He puts his fork down on his all-but-licked-clean plate. "I woke up when you got in next to me." He's about to say something about it having been almost more tantalizing that she didn't touch him than if she had, but shelves the thought. "You didn't say a word, so I followed your lead. For a change, I know. You don't have to remind me. And when I was sure that you were out I picked up your hand and held it with mine against my chest. It was–it meant everything. And then I drifted off, too, and when I woke up I was so disappointed that you weren't there any more. When I didn't find you in the cabin or out front, I was terrified that I'd spooked you. I was ready to race down that mosquito-infested path to see if I could find you–and that's when I saw you doing yoga." He can't say any more. "Now you know the hand-holding secret." C'mon, Rick, he urges himself, keep going. "Since I answered your question, will you answer mine?"

Uh-oh, that might have been one step too many. She doesn't resemble a frightened deer, but she does look a little panicky.

"So, I'm more than comfort blankie?"

She nods. He doesn't know whether to make this light or serious. Maybe he'll go for the former first and then steer towards the latter.

"I'm a pretty good chauffeur, right?"

Another nod.

"And chef?"

She nods again.

"And read-alouder."

"Mmhmm."

"Cannonballer."

That prompts a smile.

"Footwarmer?"

"Dunno about that one."

"You think I'm not, or don't know if I am?"

"Don't know."

"Even though you were in bed with me last night?"

"Our feet weren't touching."

That's an unfortunate truth, he thinks. "Fair enough." He has sufficient will power not to play footsie with her. Just barely enough. She hasn't taken the bait, though, so he's going for something more serious.

He turns his hand palm up on the table. "How about friend?"

The serious-ish change in the conversation elicits a serious expression. "Friend?" she says. "Yes. Yes." And she looks even more serious. "The best."

An orange, or a lump the same size and shape as an orange, just lodged in throat.

"You are. You're my best friend. I never thought I could have a best friend who's a man, you know? And I never thought it could be you. It sneaked up on me. You sneaked up on me. I think maybe–." She looks away for what seems forever and then her eyes are back on him. "I think maybe that's the best kind of friendship, one that takes a long time to take root. Goes through some drought, some storms. Even a lot of storms. Lightning, thunder, yowling, lights out. We've had that, haven't we?"

He'd like to say something, but she's rendered him temporarily speechless. He's capable only of a timid nod.

"I think having a best friend who stays your best friend but becomes something much more must be–. Astonishing. Magical. It would be magical. If I can straighten myself out. When I do."

"You already are." His voice is cracking like a 13-year-old boy's. "Straightening yourself out."

"I've got a long way to go, Castle."

"Maybe a best friend will make it seem shorter."

She leans across the little table and kisses him lightly. Lightly, but on the lips. He can taste the maple syrup. He understands that she believes she needs to improve, or whatever word she's stuck on at the moment, and he honors it, but he's not letting this moment go by untouched or unobserved or unnoted. Not like the "fake" kiss in the alley. Not this one. Halfway out of his chair, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her–not lightly, yet tenderly; not wildly, yet passionately. This time he tastes syrup but also coffee and vanilla and butter and something unidentifiable. Then he identifies it: it's in her response, which is yielding but still guarded. It's the promise of something more–bigger, deeper–in the future.

"I can't screw up this up," she whispers as she pulls away from him. "Not this. It will kill me if I do."

"You kissed me," he says, still bathed in the surprise of it, the wonder of it.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"For what?"

"Shouldn't have kissed you."

He looks at her as steadily as he's looked at anyone or anything, ever. "Do you wish you hadn't?"

"Yes."

He holds fast. Doesn't move. Doesn't change expression. Doesn't utter a syllable. Just waits.

She wiggles uncomfortably. "No."

"Good. Do you wish that I hadn't kissed you?"

"No."

"Good. Now stay there while I make another batch of pancakes."

He's glad to have a few minutes away from her, physically and emotionally, even though they're in the same room. He spoons batter into the frying pan, which he can do this on autopilot, and lets his mind drift over what she's just said. When the pancakes are perfectly browned he slides them onto the plates and carries them to the table. Instead of sitting down, he walks to the back of her chair and wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind, clasping his hands just below her collarbones. Because he's bent over, his mouth is level with the top of her ear. "I won't kiss you again until you're ready, but once in a while I have to do something like this, okay? Just a hug. With my hands like this I can feel your breath, and sense your pulse. Your hair is pressed against my cheek, and I can tell the difference in each wave of it." He inhales deeply, exhales softly, and says in the voice of someone who just discovered a new and rare element, "I can smell your shampoo." He lets go and goes back to his chair. "Just every now and then I'd like to do that, okay?"

"Okay." She looks into her mug and pushes herself up from the table. "I need more coffee." Her hand is far from steady as pours a refill, and it's still not rock-solid when she's back at her place.

"Is something wrong?"

"No."

"You look a little shaky."

"I am."

"Should I be apologizing?"

"No. No. It's. I was beginning to feel like this was heaven, and then I suddenly remembered what day it is."

"Did I miss something? Not your birthday, I know that."/

"My dad gets back today, from the case he was consulting on in Japan. I haven't seen him since May, but we talk a couple of times a week, you know?"

"Right. It's nice that you keep up."

"Not in the last few weeks, though, because of the time difference between here and Osaka. And I realized just now that he'll be home in a few hours and he'll call me to check in." She looks up with haunted eyes. "I have to tell him, Castle. About my drinking. And I don't know if I can bear it."

TBC

 **A/N** I've said it before, but must repeat it: thank you again for your support for this story, which is the toughest one I've ever undertaken.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She'd spoken briefly with her father on Thursday afternoon. The three days since have been laced with the worst anxiety she has ever experienced, and she feels as if she's mired in a toxic marsh. If there's a conversation that she's dreaded more than the one she's about to have, she can't remember it.

Sunday has finally crawled its way here, and she and Castle are driving into Manhattan. Because it's August and still quite early in the morning, the traffic is light; Castle is going to drop her off at her father's apartment, then go to the loft until she's ready for him to pick her up. Assuming she hasn't died of shame or from choking on brunch.

"I'm sorry I've been so cranky," she says from the seat next to him. The seat belt feels like a strait jacket. "I'm just so terrified. But you shouldn't have had to put up with that."

"Not here just for the fun times, Beckett," he says, reaching out to squeeze her balled-up hand, gently. "You get a pass on this one, okay?"

"Okay." She wishes that the road were clogged with cars and 18-wheelers with flat tires, something to slow their progress. No luck. She's trying to do the mental and physical exercises that Dr. Burke has given her to lessen her anxiety. No luck there, either. She closes her eyes and moves her head sideways until her temple is resting against the cool surface of the window. It's so sleek that her head slides down a few inches. Sliding down: that's what she feels as if her entire body is doing. No, more like tumbling down. Free fall. She raises her left hand from her lap and briefly lays it on Castle's thigh. She can feel his quads twitch under her palm, which is both arousing and relaxing. "Thank you," she says softly as she withdraws her hand. "Thank you."

They're here. Her father's building. Castle offers again to go up with her, but she declines. "I'll call you later," she says, giving him a tiny, tremulous wave.

The doorman must have buzzed her father, because when she gets off the elevator and approaches apartment 8A he opens the door. "Hi, Katie," he says, his arms already open, and he pulls her into a hug. "I'm so happy to see you."

"Hi, Dad. Welcome home. You gonna feed me sushi?"

"Absolutely not. Bagels and scrambled eggs have been our go-to brunch for years and I see no reason to change the menu."

Thank God, she thinks, certain that her stomach would have rejected raw fish. "That's because it's something both of us know how to cook."

"Come on, sit down, everything's almost ready."

"What's this?" she asks, pointing to a small red shopping bag at her place.

"A little something from Japan."

"You didn't have to do that, Dad."

"I know, but I like to. You don't let me spoil you much. Never did."

Her mind lands hard on "spoil." She's about to spoil his day. His life. She sits on her hands to hide how shaky they are, trying to will them into steadiness. "Thank you."

She's trying to eat, she really is, but she can do no more than pick at her food.

"Why don't you open your present, Katie," her father says kindly. "Don't worry about finishing your eggs."

"Sorry, Dad. They're delicious. I–I just."

"It's all right." He points his fork at the bag. "Maybe that will perk you up."

She peeks inside and takes out something light, exquisitely wrapped in tissue paper. She peels it open and finds a silk, purple-and-black knee-length kimono. "Oh, Dad, this is gorgeous." She stands up, slips it on over her soft tunic, and ties the sash. "It's perfect. Thank you. I'm not going to wear it right now because I'm bound to spill coffee on it." She folds it up neatly and puts it back in the bag.

"There's something else in there for you. Nothing much, but I know you like it and I thought I shouldn't come back from Japan without some."

"Oooh, two presents," she says. She reaches into the bag and draws out a bottle. Perfume? No. Oh, God, no. No no no no no no no no. It's sake. He bought her sake. She collapses onto her chair and bursts into tears, the kind that involve her whole being.

Jim Beckett is 64, but at this moment he moves as fast as a 20-year-old. He kneels on the floor next to her and puts his arms around her. "What's the matter, Katie? It's the sake, isn't it? I didn't buy it for me, sweetheart, I bought it for you. Don't worry about me. I haven't had a slip, I promise. You love Japanese food, and when we go out you always have sake with it. I just thought it would be fun to bring a little back to you from Osaka."

She can't control anything–not her weeping or the rocking of her body or the wail that seems to come from someone else but that she can feel rattling against her ribs, scorching her mouth. "It's not you," she finally says. "It isn't you. It's me." She's choking on her own terrible words.

His arm slides off her shoulder. "What? What do you mean, it's you?" His voice has an edge of panic that she hasn't heard in years. "What's wrong?"

The bottle of sake is on the table, standing there like some tiny accuser, and she pushes it as far as she can to one side. "I'm an alcoholic, Dad, just like you. I am. Just like you." She rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes and forces herself to look at him. He looks stricken, his skin suddenly as gray as his hair. "All the awful things I said to you back then. All the unforgivable things. But I don't have an excuse. Nobody died. This is all–. I did this all to myself, Dad." She begins to cry again, but this time she's silent. She doesn't know where this reservoir of tears is, the one that expels the fat drops that are running down her face and neck and onto her jersey. Some even land on her lap.

He gets to his feet, clears his throat, and takes her hand. "Come here, sweetheart. Come sit on the sofa with me. Start at the beginning and we'll talk."

For hours, they do. She far more than he, at the beginning. She doesn't tell him everything–her arrest is something she'll keep to herself, at least for now–but she's unsparing in many details of her downward spiral. She hadn't intended to say half as much about Castle as she does, but it spills out of her. "I don't know what I'd have done without him, Dad. I don't think I'd have made it."

"This is the first thing I'd like you to do," her father says. It's clear that she's exhausted. "Stop beating yourself up."

"But–"

"No buts. I'm not saying that you don't need to make amends, but I want you to understand. You've been through a lot with me. You've learned a great deal about alcoholism because of me, and you know that it's a disease. It's a disease, Katie. You keep apologizing to me, but think about this. Should I be apologizing to you? Did I pass on, however unwittingly, this ghastly disease to you? What kind of legacy is that, from a father to his beloved daughter? My heart breaks for you, but I'm going to have to work hard on not beating up myself, too. You had whatever it took to get help in a fraction of the time that I did. You're much stronger than I was. It's a battle, but you recognized it pretty quickly and you recognized the need to do what you've done. What you're doing. I'm going to make us some more coffee."

"I can do it."

"So can I. You can't imagine how much coffee I drank in my early days with AA."

For the first time today, she laughs. "Oh, I think I can."

"One meeting and you're already an expert. You always were a quick study." He kisses her forehead and goes to the kitchen to make another pot.

While he's seeing to that she goes to the bathroom and washes her face. By the time she's done, the coffee is, too.

"So you liked your meeting?" he asks."Feel reasonably comfortable there?"

"Yeah, I did. I was surprised."

"When are you going again?"

"Tomorrow."

"Good for you. Want to know how long it took me to go to my second meeting?"

"I dunno. A week?"

He shakes his head. "Not even close."

"A month?"

"Almost two and a half years. I wasn't as ready as you."

"But you didn't have anyone to help you, either. I should have."

"Not your job, Katie. Not then, not ever."

"But I do have someone. I mean, I know that Castle can't 'cure' me. But he's so–he's so nonjudgmental."

Her father looks at her for a long time, first over the rim of his mug, and then flat out. "He loves you."

It was a statement, not a question.

"He does."

"He's in love with you. And I'm pretty sure that you're in love him?" He stops and shakes his head. "Wait, you don't have to answer that. That's your business. Between you and him."

That sets her off again. She'd thought that she was cried out, but she wasn't. She finally pulls herself together enough to say, "I have to be better first, Dad."

He puts his hand on her cheek. "I know."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course. Especially considering what I just asked you."

"Do you know how long it's been since you had a drink?"

He drains his mug. "Eight years, two months, and five days."

"Wow. Do you calculate it every day? Will you wake up tomorrow and say, 'It's been eight years, two months, and six days'?"

"No. I used to. I took one-day-at-a-time literally. But if I stop and think about it I can remember exactly."

"But doesn't that seem sort of like a life sentence? Like you're some prisoner scratching off days on his cell wall? Except you'd never get out?"

"At the beginning, maybe. Yes, it did. But I realized pretty soon that the alternative was a death sentence. And I don't think about it every day at all any more."

"You never talk about it, but I know you still go to meetings, right?" She's leaning across the table, balancing on her elbows. "Every week or two? Do you feel like you still need to?"

"It's different for everyone, sweetheart. I don't need to, to use your word. Once in a while, yes, but not often any more. I go because I want to be there if someone has just had the guts to walk in. Maybe he's still hungover and it's his first day. Or hour. Maybe someone fell off the wagon and she's trying to get back on it. Or maybe someone's embarrassed and doesn't know how shake that off. I want those people to know that it's possible to be sober and be happy."

She lowers her head and covers her face with her hands.

"This has been a tough morning," her father says quietly, and checks his watch. "Afternoon. A tough afternoon. Do you think you could eat something now? I don't want you to go back to the country with nothing in your stomach. Rick would wonder what kind of parent I am."

Something shifts inside her. She feels lighter. Not buoyant, but less weighed down. Less guilty. More hopeful. More full of _maybe_ and less of _can't_. She sits up straight. "You're a great parent, Dad. And I guess I could eat a piece of toast. And yogurt, even though it violates our brunch code."

Half an hour later, her stomach no longer the size of a desiccated blueberry, she kisses her father goodbye. She's clutching the little red shopping bag, but the bottle of sake is no longer inside it. "I'll leave it on the conference table in the office," he'd said. "It'll be gone in five minutes."

She hugs him long and hard. "Thanks, Dad. For everything. I'll call you tomorrow."

"I look forward to it. And Katie?" He waits for her to look him in the eye. "You are not a disappointment to me. You never will be."

Rather than text Castle that she's ready, she walks to the subway and takes the train to Times Square. There's an easy change to another line there, and minutes later she's walking up the stairs of the Prince Street station. His loft is only a few blocks away. When she gets there, she persuades the doorman–fortunately he remembers her fondly–to let her upstairs, unannounced.

When Castle answers the door he looks adorably rumpled and surprised. "Beckett! Are you all right?"

"It's five-thirty."

"That's not really an answer but yes, it's five-thirty. Come in."

"There's a lot of traffic," she says, stepping past him. "People coming home from the weekend."

Just for a second, though he is disgusted with himself for the fleeting thought, he wonders if she's been drinking. Her conversation with her father must have been hell. "How did it go? With your father."

"You were right," she says, toeing off her shoes. "He was amazing. I think I used a month's supply of Kleenex, though." She walks slowly to the sofa and sits down. It's only then that he realizes how spent she looks. "It's hot. And it's Sunday night."

"Right." He hasn't a clue where this mysterious train of thought of hers is headed.

"I was just wondering if we could eat dinner and spend the night in the city and leave in the morning. I could go to my place after we eat."

"Why would you do that? Go to your place, I mean. You could stay here. Four bedrooms. Four bathrooms. Four-star kitchen."

"Are you sure?"

"I can't believe you're even asking, Beckett. You sure you're all right?"

She smiles but looks as if she's running on empty. "I'm fine. But it's not easy telling your recovering alcoholic father that you ripped a bunch of pages from the playbook that he threw away eight years ago and soaked yourself in bourbon for months."

"Oh, Kate," he says, sitting down next to her and pulling her head onto his shoulder. "Oh, Kate." He feels her crying before he hears it, and clumsily gets a hanky from his pocket. ("A gentleman always carries a clean handkerchief, Richard," his mother had instructed him, before he had reached puberty.) Only slightly less clumsily, he wipes her face with it.

They sit wordlessly for a while, and then she says, "Italian."

"Hmm?"

"I'd like some Italian food, would you?"

"There's a place right down the block. We could go."

"Do they deliver? I'm not sure that I can walk that far."

They eat on the sofa, with their plates on the coffee table, and she falls asleep halfway through her mushroom ravioli. She has tilted over against him, and he sits happily that way until it's almost ten. He tries to wake her but she's really out, so he stretches her out on the sofa, puts a blanket over her, turns out the light, and goes to his room.

It's about 2:00 a.m. when he wakes and feels her getting into bed with him again. His heart sings, and he waits for her to go back to sleep again before pulls her hand onto his chest, just as he'd done a few nights ago in the cabin. But this time he stays awake, and he's still awake but very still at dawn when he feels her press her lips between his shoulder blades. He feels as if he's been branded, and he wants her to stay there forever.

TBC

 **A/N** Enormous thanks to all you lovely reviewers and lovely readers.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

This time he doesn't sleep through her getting out of his bed. When he feels her roll over, he does the same, and runs two fingertips lightly across her wrist. "Don't go," he murmurs. Her body stills, but it doesn't go rigid, and she looks over her shoulder at him. "Stay here. Just for a minute."

She turns from her right side onto her left, until she's facing him. "Just for a minute," she echoes, so softly that if he hadn't seen her lips move he'd have thought that he imagined it.

She stayed, so he'll take a chance. He wraps his arms around her and draws her to his chest. "Did you sleep all right?" he asks, addressing the part in her hair.

"I had a lot of weird dreams out on the sofa. So I came in here and then I did. Sleep all right, I mean."

"Good."

Time is almost completely suspended for him at the moment, but he's sure that at least a minute has gone by before she says, "Do you think I'm a wimp?"

The question is so unexpected and off-the-wall that it makes him burst out laughing. "A wimp? Are you kidding? You're the least wimpy person I've ever known. There's not a cell of wimpiness in your bloodstream. Not a fraction of a strand in your DNA."

"Yeah, but I came in here because I couldn't stand my dreams. Haven't done that since I was about three."

He suddenly remembers what her father had told him last year when he'd come to the loft and asked him to get her to stop chasing Hal Lockwood. "She wouldn't accept a nightlight when she was a little girl," Jim Beckett had said. "Not that she wasn't afraid of the dark, but I think she felt it was a point of pride to, you know, stare it down." Even then she was tough. Even then she set the bar impossibly high for herself.

"Bet you think I'm a wimp. You've been teasing me about freaking out over that spider on my shoulder for two years."

"That's different."

"It's not wimpy to want to get away from a bad dream. Night terrors are the worst. Would you be a wimp if you got up and ate ice cream? Do you know how happy I am that you chose me over ice cream?" His eyes widen. "You did, right?"

She laughs and the warmth of it fans out across his chest. It's almost impossible not to kiss her. It's killing him not to kiss her. "Right? You didn't have some Rocky Road first?" He meant to give her a little tug to underscore the dopeyness of the question, but he pulls her in too tight. He feels her nipples harden against his chest. Oh, shit, this is worse than being 13 and trying to hide his spontaneous pubescent erection under his desk when he looked at his math teacher, Ms. Bowers. But Beckett is fifty times sexier than Ms. Bowers and there's no desk here.

He'd rolled over quickly to stop her from leaving, but he's even faster getting out of bed himself. "I need fruit," he says as he scrambles to his feet.

"Fruit?"

"What?"

"You need fruit. You said , 'I need fruit'."

"Coffee. I said, 'I need coffee'."

He runs to the kitchen as if the bedroom floor were in flames, but he's the one on fire, and what he needs a hell of a lot more than coffee (or fruit) is a cold shower. He settles for several splashes of cold water on his face and puts the coffee on. Fruit? Did he even buy fruit? Oh, yes. Yes, he did. Peaches. Because they reminded him of her skin. Here they are, tucked into the corner of the counter in a little wooden box. Thank goodness. He rinses off two, puts them on a small plate, and sets it on the table.

Just as hears the coffeemaker click off, a voice from behind him says, "Mmmm."

He whirls around, trying not to appear overly eager, and there she is, radiant as a, well, peach. "Morning, Beckett." Because he hadn't said that to her in bed and because he can't come up with anything suitable when she's standing there looking all spectacularly sleep rumpled.

"Morning, Castle," she says, pulling out her chair.

He pours coffee, hands her a mug, and sits down opposite her.

She's eyeing the plate hungrily. "Do I dare to eat a peach?" she asks, picking one up and holding it close to her lips.

"Wow, T.S. Eliot at breakfast. That's a first for me. But yes, please dare to eat that." Please, please, please.

When she takes a bite, the juice runs down her chin. "Oh, my God. This is unbelievably perfect," she says. To his dismay, she rubs the juice off with her paper napkin. "You have to try it."

"I will, I will. Going to have my coffee first." And think about things like frostbite and freezer-burned chicken and other unappetizing items that might cool him down. "Get a grip."

"Get a grip?"

For the second time this morning, and it's not even 8:00, he's said something that he hadn't intended. He'd meant get a grip, but he'd meant it as a silent, self-directed command. He quickly drinks some coffee.

"No, great _sip_. Great sip. Tastes especially good today for some reason." He takes another sip of coffee that is in fact identical to what he has virtually every day. With considerable relief he remembers that she has a 9:00 double session with Dr. Burke, and after that her second AA meeting. No more thinking these thoughts, no more peach juice.

He arranges to pick her up at 1:00, down the block from her meeting, and spends the morning wandering in and out of stores that he hasn't visited all summer. He buys some fancy cheese, a pair of socks that even he finds expensive, but irresistible, and looks in at Barnes & Noble. He's rewarded by overhearing a woman in the Mystery section say to her friend, "Oh, Richard Castle is waaayy better than James Patterson." He wishes that he'd captured it on his phone and wonders if Beckett will think he's fibbing. No way he's not telling her about it.

He gets his car from his garage, drives to the Upper West Side, and parks at the appointed corner a few minutes ahead of her.

"Remind me to bring my own coffee next week," she says when she slides across the buttery leather of the seat. "That stuff is even worse than the break room swill we used to have before you bought us that machine."

"It's not a machine, Beckett. It's a work of art."

"Fine. Work of art. Anyway, next week I'm bringing stuff from home."

"Are you hungry? Would you like some lunch?"

"Not really. But stop if you want something."

"No, I'm good. Had a little snack."

"What a shock." She yawns. "I'm sorry, but I think I'm about to fall asleep. It was an intense morning. Two hours with Burke and then the meeting. I'm wiped."

"Go ahead. That seat goes all the way back, by the way, almost like a flat bed."

"Ah."

"That's what you'll say when you try it."

She naps all the way to Berryville. Once they're at the cabin he asks, "Would you mind if I write for a bit?"

"Of course not. I'm really glad that you're back at it."

Not long after that he's installed on the porch, feet propped up on a wicker stool, laptop balanced on his thighs. He can't get the vision of her in bed this morning out of his head. His back is to the wall, so there's no way she could read over his shoulder. A good thing, too, as he writes a chapter that will never, ever see the light of day. It might even be too much for a porn site. He also manages to write most of a very good, if he does say so, PG13-rated Nikki Heat chapter that he'll finish tomorrow and send to Gina. He shuts down the computer and stretches his arms over his head. He can honestly tell Beckett that he's had a good writing day.

He finds her reading in the shade, sitting in a folding chair. "Sorry I lost track of time," he says.

"That's all right. You were really into it. You didn't even notice me walk by you."

"You did?"

"Yeah, a couple of times. I made some iced tea if you'd like it."

"Thank you. Hey, would you like to go for a swim in the pool again?"

"That'd be nice."

While she's getting her suit from the bedroom he slides headfirst into early-stage panic. Go for a swim? Is he crazy? Seeing her in a bathing suit, all wet and glistening? Just as he's successfully filled his mind with off-putting images like dropping an ice pick through his bare foot or having to eat sheep's eyes? Man up, he thinks, before realizing that that's a poor choice of expression for his current state of mind.

"You okay, Castle?"

"Definitely. Don't I look okay?"

"You seem worried or something."

"Nope. Just wondering about my next chapter, how I should take it. You know, which direction. Um, listen. Want to go out to dinner after we swim? There's a fantastic French place in Kingston. Half an hour away, something like that."

"I don't have anything dressy."

"Don't think you need it. It's summer. Besides, once the waiter hears you speak French he won't care if you're wearing OshKosh overalls."

"Not gonna wear overalls."

"Okay, then."

He survives the swim and her suit. He survives the flash of thigh he sees from the corner of his eye every time her sundress moves on the way to Kingston. He's not sure he's going to survive an entire dinner with her in candlelight. But now they're having dessert and he has to say something that he's been putting off and can't do any longer.

"I have to go to the Hamptons this weekend. Will you be okay up here by yourself?"

"Yes. Don't worry about me."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"It's not just the weekend, though. On Sunday night I have to go back to the city with Alexis and get her ready for college. Of course she's already all ready, but I'm not."

She plays with her spoon. "You haven't talked about that at all. Empty nest going to hit you hard?"

He looks down at his chocolate mousse, no longer hungry. "Yeah. It is."

"Listen," she says, leaning across the table and smiling. "She'll come home all the time. Do her laundry, raid the fridge. She's only fifteen stops away on the subway."

That takes him aback. "You know how many stops it is?"

"Of course." She shrugs. "Take the R from Prince to Times Square, change to the One, get off at a hundred and tenth. Fifteen stops."

"How do you do that?"

She taps a finger against her temple. "I know the city. I'm a cop, remember?"

The temperature plummets, and it has nothing to do with the sun having gone down.

"Was," she says. "Was a cop." She looks across his shoulder as if she's seeing nothing at all, then takes the napkin from her lap, folds it with great deliberation, and tucks it next to her untouched crème brûlée.

"We haven't really talked about that either, have we?" he asks quietly. It's true. When he'd first come up here, there was an entire herd of elephants in the room. Some of them have departed, but others remain, and some are restless.

She shakes her head, a model of misery.

"Would you like to go home?"

"Please," she says, her eyes downcast. He thinks she's willing herself not to cry.

He signals the waiter for the check and pays in cash so they don't have to wait for him to return with the credit card. On the short walk to the car he puts his arm around her shoulder. She doesn't say a word on the drive back, but a few minutes before they reach the cabin he reaches out and takes her hand. She laces her fingers through his but keeps her silence.

"Summer's ending," she says after stepping inside and turning on the light. "It's not that I didn't know that it would, I just can't face leaving yet. What am I gonna do in New York?"

"I live a mile away from you. I can be there even faster than Alexis can get to the loft from Columbia."

"It won't be the same, though, will it?" She lifts her head. Her eyes are so full of pain that they almost bring him to his knees. "I want my job back, Castle."

He's lost. What should he say? What's truthful but not hurtful? What's realistic?

Before he can come up with anything, she says it again. "I want my job back. If I can stay sober, do you think I can?"

"I don't know, Kate. Maybe. There must be hundreds of cops who've had drinking problems and come back to the force."

"I'm so scared, Castle. I want my job back. I want it, but only if you come with me."

"Really?" He'd never even considered that.

"Yes." She closes her eyes, and sways. At first he thinks she might faint, and he's about to put grab her elbow to steady her when she opens her eyes and takes a small, tentative step towards him. "Do you know what else I want?"

"No."

Her arms are at her sides, and she's in sandals and that sundress with one strap that's slipped off her shoulder and she has no makeup on and it's all so simple and unfussy and beautiful, and she says, "I want to kiss you."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you all, very, very much.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She's wanted to kiss him again for such a long time. She's come very close so many times. Funny, she'd never thought about where it would happen, or even when. Not that she hadn't imagined it or dreamed it or wished it, but the actual spot was irrelevant. No, not irrelevant, just unconsidered. In the kitchen of an uninsulated cabin on the edge of the woods at the edge of the mountains after she'd had a 110-minute session with a therapist and gone to an AA meeting? Never. And yet it's about to happen.

She's surprised herself by telling him that she wants to kiss him. She'd never given that any thought, either. Oh, the kiss itself, yes, but not the words. In her mind, when she permits herself the fantasy, she just kisses him, or he kisses her, with no announcement.

He looks more shocked than surprised when she says it. Stunned, maybe. There's only an overhead light, and it's dim, so his eyes aren't as blue as they were this afternoon with the water in the pool around him and the sky above. They aren't as blue as they are when he wears her favorite shirt of his, the one that she'd almost stolen from the laundry basket when she'd spent two weeks in his loft after her apartment blew up. But they're still blue enough for her to drown in, happily, and they look bigger than usual because he's astonished. He's so astonished that his mouth has fallen open. She could make full use of that. Just take his head in her hands and devour him, taste him before he realizes that he's on the menu.

But she doesn't. If she does, everything will move way too fast and she doesn't want fast, not now. She can't deal with fast or everything will be in shreds. She probably shouldn't be doing this at all, but it feels right to move forward a little bit. She's been cowardly for months, and she's disgusted with it. But she's finally gone back to Burke, and started in AA, and told her father, and who deserves the credit for that? Castle. She may have taken the action, but she never would have without him. He was the impulse and the motivator. Castle, who believes in her more than she does, who has taken care of her since the morning he saw her in the drunk tank, who loves her, who is in love with her.

She takes another step.

Half a step more and there's no space between them. She rests her hand on his cheek. It's slightly rough against her palm because it's been hours since he shaved, but she runs her thumb under his eye and the skin there feels like a rose petal. It's incredibly, mesmerizingly silky, and she can't stop smoothing it with the pad of her thumb. "This is so soft. I didn't know it would be so soft here." She slips her hand down his face until the tip of her finger reaches the corner of his mouth. She runs it lightly over his upper lip, from the right to the middle and back again. "And here," she says. She can hear the sound of wonder in her voice. "Your philtrum."

"Philtrum?" he asks, with some difficulty

"This little groove," she says, stroking her index finger down the shallow channel that runs from below his nose to the middle of his upper lip. "Philtrum. It means 'love charm'."

She moves her hand to his shoulder, just beneath his ear, and her mouth is on his–first lightly, even a little cautiously, but then insistently, and he responds, measure for measure. It's tongues and teeth and thrusting and unfurling until they are both gasping and light-headed and she drops her damp forehead to the dip in his collarbone. "Wow," she says.

"Double," he says, breathing hard. "Double wow." He gathers her up until he can feel her heart against his chest, the pulsing slightly faster than his own. He wishes that they matched, beat for beat, because that's how he feels: they're in perfect synch.

"Want to do that again, only not standing up?"

"Not standing up?"

"I was thinking of the sofa, Castle. You know, making out on the sofa."

"Oh, okay." He smiles like a six-year-old, except no six-year-old she's ever seen looks sexy. "Yes. Double yes."

"Like teenagers, only we don't have to worry about my father catching us."

He picks her up before either of them can reconsider, and carries her to the sofa. Some time later–half an hour? an hour? two? who knows?–he says, "I wish I'd done that when I was a teenager."

"With me?"

"Of course with you."

"When you were a teenager I was in elementary school."

"Way to deflate a guy, Beckett."

She laughs into the crook of his elbow, and scoots up until she can kiss his bicep, and laughs some more. "Sorry, Castle." She tips her head back and looks solemnly at him. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Mind what?"

"That we only made out. Even though I'm thirty-two and you're–"

He puts his hand over her mouth. "Don't even say it."

She licks his palm seductively, quickly takes one of his fingertips into her mouth and nips it, and he yelps.

"Ouch," he says, pulling his hand away but smiling widely. "If I'd known that making out could be like that when I was fifteen, Kate, I wouldn't have been in such a hurry to have sex."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she says, snuggling into him.

"Meant as one," he replies, kissing her ear.

She wriggles until she's sitting up but still pressed to his side. "It's been a hell of a day. Roller coaster of a day. I want to go to sleep, and I'd like what just happened to be what I'm thinking of when I close my eyes, not your going to the Hamptons or my not having a job."

"I think that's my cue to go back to my motel," he says, massaging her arm.

"Afraid you can't keep your hands off me?"

"Something like that. Or vice versa." He's quiet for a few moments before continuing. "You gonna be all right here?"

"Yes."

He's quiet again, then gets to his feet and pulls her up with him. He tugs on her hand and they walk together to the door. "Night," he says, stopping there and hugging her so tight that she can scarcely breathe. Maybe she could scarcely breathe even without the hug; a lot more than making out happened here tonight.

"Night." She stands in the doorway and waves as he drives away. She stands there for a long time, not moving, before going back in and getting ready for bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she balances her phone in her hand, finger hovering over the screen. After several minutes, she taps the messages icon and types a two-word note to Castle.

"Thank you."

After deliberating a while longer she adds a heart emoticon and hits send. She turns off the light and slips under the covers, and soon after hears the chirp of her phone. It's a wordless reply from Castle–wordless but not emotionless. He's posted a hundred hearts. She counts them several times and falls asleep with the phone by her pillow.

xxxxxx

The next day comes and turns into the one after that, and they drive into Manhattan for her appointment with Dr. Burke. And then the dreaded day arrives. Castle has checked out of his motel room and they're sitting on the porch, both on edge. He pushes his departure time as long as he dares, until she finally has to force him into the car. She leans in to talk to him.

"Go see your kid, Castle."

"And my mother."

"And your mother."

"Are you going–"

"You agreed that you wouldn't ask me that again. I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'll call you. You'll call me."

He reaches up and pulls her face to his, and kisses her so deeply that she feels as if she's about to be drawn right through the open window.

"Wow," she says.

"Double wow."

"Get out of here, Castle." She walks to the porch and takes the steps in one jump; when she turns around he's still looking at her. She blows him a kiss, goes inside, and sits down hard on the sofa. She hears the tires scrunch on the gravel, hears the purr of the motor, and then hears nothing at all.

He's been gone for less than five minutes and she already misses him, physically, mentally, every way. When they'd gone to his motel to swim a few days ago she'd showed less scruples than she had in his loft two years ago: she'd helped herself to the shirt that he'd been wearing, shoved it into her tote bag, and carried it back here.

She goes to her closet and takes it out. It's just an ordinary polo shirt, but it smells of him, and it's as soft as he is. She curls up on the bed, buries her face in the shirt, and wonders how the hell she's going to get through the next week.

The first few days are all right. She gets on her motorcycle, which has been idle most of the summer, and takes long rides. Higher up in the mountains, the leaves on a few swamp maples are turning red. She takes a photo but thinks better of sending it to Castle. He's with Alexis. He doesn't need a leaf picture.

By the afternoon of day three she's restless. When she goes for a ride she takes a different route home through a largish–larger than Berryville, anyway–town and pulls over to watch a cop directing traffic. She'd almost been busted down to traffic once, in her rookie days, and she'd taken grief about it for weeks. This guy is good; he doesn't look bored or resentful, he looks as though he enjoys it. He finds the rhythm in the cars and vans and trucks moving through his intersection, and his feet, in their thick-soled shoes, are dancing. Probably no one else notices it, but she catches his eye and nods her approval. He nods back, and she takes off. It's a lovely moment, except that it makes her miss the precinct more sharply than she has since the day she'd left her badge and her gun on Captain Gates's desk.

"I want my job back," she says when she's back in the kitchen, dropping the keys on the table with a thunk. "I'd even do traffic." It's hot. It's humid. She wants a beer. She wants to sit in a cop bar with Castle and Ryan and Espo and have a beer and bitch about the brass. Maybe play footsie under the table with Castle. She wants a beer.

She can't have a beer today. She can't have a beer, ever. No, today she can't have a beer. One day at a time. How often has she heard that? Except that never before has it applied to her.

She can't have a beer but she wants one.

Distraction. She needs distraction. About 20 miles away there's a huge mall with a multiplex. That's it. She gets back on her bike and roars off, but when she arrives at the theater she finds the pickings end-of-summer slim. There's one possibility, _The Bourne Legacy_. Worth a shot. She buys a ticket, a small container of overly salty popcorn, an anemic coffee, and Milk Duds. Nothing helps the coffee, but she finds that dropping the chocolates into the popcorn produces a surprisingly tolerable treat. Castle would have something to say about that. Castle has something to say about everything. She takes a photograph of it, types "my new-Bourne snack," and sends it to him.

She can't keep her eyes on the screen. She can't keep her mind on the plot. She can't keep wishing that Matt Damon were in the movie. When Rachel Weisz, in the role of a scientist, says, "I wanna stop thinking," Beckett mutters, "Me, too." She gets up from the rump-sprung red plush seat, and walks out into the naturally cool air. When she gets home she still wants a beer, but forces herself to change into a sleep shirt and brush her teeth. Walking out of the bathroom, she hears her phone, and runs to answer it.

"Hey, Castle."

"Hey, Beckett."

"How's it going?"

"I spent four hours shopping for sheets for Alexis's dorm room."

"Yeah? Where is she now?"

"Skyping with her friend Chrissy, trying to decide if she picked the right ones. And tomorrow we do towels."

She hears ice cubes rattling. What's he drinking? "You're a good Dad."

"Thanks. You went to the movies?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And?"

"And I wish you'd been there."

"I could have held your hand during the scary parts."

"Oh, please, I'd have held _your_ hand during the scary parts."

More ice cube noise. "I miss you."

"Miss you, too."

"I–. Hang on a sec."

Now there's muffled background noise.

"Beckett? I'm sorry. Gotta go. Alexis is having an existential crisis over her choice of duvet covers."

"Okay. Night."

"Night?"

"I'm going to bed."

"It's only nine thirty."

" 'm tired."

She's anything but tired, but she has to get off the phone. She has to stop thinking. Has to stop thinking about the ice cubes and what liquid surrounds them. Not beer. Maybe Scotch? No. He'd never have a drink while he was talking to her, even during an existential crisis over bedding. It's probably lemonade. Three days without him and she's craving booze. What a weakling she is.

It's a tough night and a worse morning. She finally drags herself out of bed sometime after 10:00, makes some coffee, and looks out the window at the birds. Soon she'll have to leave here and the only birds she'll see will be pigeons and sparrows. She takes another sip of of coffee and grimaces. She misses Castle. She misses his coffee. This is nowhere near as good. Nowhere near as good as Irish coffee, either. Fuck. What she'd give right now for an Irish coffee as she stews over having fucked up her job.

Why is so bad at being alone all of a sudden? She's always liked being alone, but she can't deal with alone this morning, and she can't call Castle. He'd propped her up for a month and a half. He needs time with his daughter now.

She fights herself all day long. When she tries to read a book and her mind wanders, she fights herself. When she pours a glass of water and wishes it were bourbon, she fights herself. By mid afternoon she feels as battered as she had when Cole Maddox fought her on the roof, and she craves a drink.

Why hadn't she thought of this before? She grabs her purse, dumps it out onto the coffee table and scrabbles through everything until she finds the little card with a name and number on it. Emily. That's it. Emily. She dials her and gets voicemail.

"Hi, Emily. This is Kate. I, uh, I talked with you at the meeting the other day. About, you know, sponsorship? I'm not so sure that I can make it through the afternoon without a drink, so if you get this, could you call me, please? Sorry. Sorry to bother you."

She covers her face with her trembling hands, and when the phone rings she's so startled that she almost drops it.

"Hello," she says after fumbling to press accept.

"Kate? It's Emily."

"I'm sorry, you're probably at work or–"

"Whoa. First rule. Never apologize for calling. Ever."

Emily stays with her for half an hour. When they're done, and she's thanked her for at least the fifth time, she feels hollowed out yet full of resolve. She strips the bed and puts the sheets and towels in the washing machine. By the time she transfers them to the dryer, she's boxed up the food in the kitchen; she puts it in the carrier on the back of her motorcycle and drives into Berryville. She'd seen a sign for a soup kitchen at a church there, and finds it easily. The couple working in the kitchen is delighted with her offering. Thank Castle, she wants to say. He's the one that bought all this good stuff. Thank Castle.

At the cabin again, she folds the sheets and towels, still warm, and puts them away. It takes her only a few minutes to pack her clothes and take out the small bag of garbage. She looks around the kitchen one last time, and locks the door. Sitting on the bike, about to put on her helmet, she makes a call.

"Beckett?"

"Hi."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"What's up?"

"I'm coming home."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you all, readers and reviewers. Your support is endlessly cheering and helpful.


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** To my surprise, this chapter goes into M territory. If you'd rather not visit that, please stop reading after the paragraph that begins, "They walk like that to her bedroom." Back to T in the next chapter.

He'd been mulling it over all week, joining Al-Anon, and yesterday he'd done it. He'd picked a meeting that's outside his own neighborhood not because he was worried that someone would recognize him–which could happen as easily on the Upper West Side as in SoHo–but because he liked the idea of being near where she goes. He'd found one a few blocks away from her AA group, and had liked the sound of it. He'd liked it even more when he'd gone there last night: the warmth, the openness, the common bond, the anger, the unexpected humor. He'd been a stranger, but he'd immediately felt a part of it. It's been on his mind ever since, and he wonders how Beckett will react when he tells her.

This afternoon Alexis had found the last things she needed for her dorm room–towels and a desk lamp–and he'd taken her to a quick, early dinner before she'd gone off for the evening with two of her friends who are about to leave for out-of-state colleges. "You're eighteen. Stay out as long as you like," he'd said.

"I'll be back by midnight, Dad."

"Fine," he'd answered approvingly, and kissed her on the cheek. "Have fun. I'm going to see Beckett, so I may or may not be home before you."

"Have a nice time," she'd said, not effusively but at least not sarcastically. Over the past few days he's spoken to her at length about his and Kate's relationship. Her initial reaction had been outright hostility, which is what he'd predicted, but she's come around considerably. He was sterner with his daughter on the issue than he'd ever been on anything, though he had not, of course, said a word about alcoholism. Might she have been more sympathetic if he had? More open-minded? Hard to say. But it's neither his duty nor his right to tell Alexis. For now he's grateful that she's no longer bristling at the mere mention of Kate Beckett's name.

Beckett had texted him that she'd be home around eight, which gives him an hour to shave, shower, and dress. He does it with 25 minutes to spare and decides to walk to her apartment. There's a florist halfway there who makes beautiful bouquets. They're displayed in cylindrical glass vases set into a stainless steel honeycomb contraption that's mounted on a concrete wall. He lights on a relatively understated one composed almost entirely of freesias, but the colors–purples, pinks, blues–and the scent are dazzling. Three blocks from her building he remembers that she'll have nothing to eat or drink there, so he stops at a coffee place that she likes and picks up two lattes and a tiny package of biscotti. His gut tells him that she'll be far more anxious to talk than to eat. Beckett anxious to talk? How the world has changed. His world, anyway.

He rings her bell in the small outer lobby and she buzzes him in; when he gets to her floor she's standing in the doorway. Before he has a chance to say hello she hugs him so fiercely that he drops the flowers.

"You often take my breath away," he says, recovering both his voice and the bouquet. "But this is the first time you've literally done it." Her smile is so incandescent that his breath leaves his body all over again.

"Are those for me?" she asks shyly, nodding her head towards the freesias.

"Mm-hmm." He offers her the ribbon-bound stems and they go inside. "I brought coffee, too," he adds, holding up the bag.

"Flowers and caffeine, the perfect date," she says over her shoulder as she opens a cupboard door to get a vase.

"Is this a date?"

"Could be."

"Glad I shaved, then."

"I'm not." Her cheeks turn the same shade as the pink blossoms.

As soon as they've settled in on the sofa he asks her point-blank: "What made you do it? Coming home." He gestures to her duffle bag, which is propped up against a closet door. "Looks like for good, too?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't see her shiver but he can feel it, just barely. "Are you cold?"

"No, I'm fine."

"What happened?"

She tells him–not in a condensed version, but a highly detailed one. At some point she draws her legs under her and turns to sit at a right angle to him, her knees bumped up against his thigh. It's fun at first, and sometimes poignant–the cop directing traffic is both–and he interrupts her only occasionally to ask a question or make an observation. But when she gets to her reason for going to the movie, to her escalating craving for a drink last night and today, and then to her decision to call Emily, it's agonizing and sad. The story shouldn't shock him, but it does. He needs to remember and to try to understand, really understand, her struggle. It's not like rebuilding a house after a fire or a flood, it's that plus constant upkeep. Is the roof leaking? Are the gutters clogged with leaves? Should they install storm windows? Is there a crack in the foundation? What about the furnace, the air conditioning, the floors, the deck? Is the security system outdated?

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Kate," he says, squeezing her hand when she finishes.

"Don't be. It was important for me to find out how I'd do on my own, and the answer is, not well."

"You did for a while."

"Doesn't matter."

"It does. It does because when it got really tough, you did the right thing. Two right things. You didn't have a drink and you called Emily." He lets that hang for a moment. "You and she seem like a good fit." He wants to add "and so are we," but maybe that should wait.

"She was great. It can take a while to find the right sponsor, but I think I lucked out."

If he's pressing, so be it. He needs to know. "You still haven't said why you left. You were going to stay until Labor Day."

She leans forward from the waist and briefly presses her forehead against his. "It was time. I need to _be_ in the city, you know? I'm a New Yorker. This is my home. I have to be able to live here. I need to face temptation here. Work things out here." She turns her hand over, threads her fingers through his, raises them, and kisses his knuckles. "And you're here."

"Um, Kate?" He has a bite of one of the biscotti to calm himself. "I want to tell you what I did this week."

"Shopped endlessly with your daughter?"

"Well, yes, but that's not it." So much for the calmness: he rushes ahead, words tumbling out in uncontrolled little bursts. "I thought about it a lot, read a lot. And then I went. To Al-Anon. A meeting. On West Sixty-third. I really liked it. I mean, I got a lot out of it. Even in that short time. I'd like to keep going, but only if it's okay with you. Do you mind?"

She looks as shocked as he'd felt a few minutes ago, when she'd told him her story. "Mind? Why would I mind?"

"If people know who I am, maybe they'll make assumptions or draw conclusions, you know, because of Nikki? If I talk about my girlfr–. You. If I talk about you. Not that I would ever say your name, or mention that you're a cop. Never, I'd never do that."

"You do know that 'Anon' is short for anonymous, right? Everyone takes that really seriously, Castle. So to your question, do I mind? Of course not. The opposite." She gives him the smile that he's seen only a few times, the one that he's confident–though he hasn't dared to say so–that she bestows only on him. "I can't tell you how touched I am that you've done that. Doing it. It's, it's everything."

"I'm in this, you know. All the way in. Committed."

She slides onto his lap and inches closer until her lips graze the soft spot on the edge of his jaw, directly above his earlobe. "I know. I know you are. Thank you." She breathes softly against him for a long time, one hand lying open on his chest, and just as he's wondering if she's asleep she asks, "Hey. Were you about to call me your girlfriend?"

"Well, I–I was, but."

"But what?" she whispers into the ear she's been nuzzling.

"I, God, Kate. We still haven't talked about so many things."

She gazes at him, seemingly unblinkingly, for such a long time that he begins to get anxious. Until she asks, "If I weren't your girlfriend, would I do this?" She wriggles dangerously on his lap–dangerously because he finds it so arousing that he's in danger of losing his self-control. Her tongue is almost in his ear. "If I weren't your girlfriend"–her voice has deepened sultrily–"would I be asking you to take me to bed? If I weren't your girlfriend, would I be telling you that I can't wait another month or week or day or hour to make love to you?"

Is he the one who's asleep? Surely she didn't say what he thinks he heard her say, or dreamed her say? He pulls his head back so that he can see her clearly, but he's so struck by her appearance–flushed, trusting, wanting–that he has trouble responding. At last his mouth catches up with the rest of him. "Is that what you're asking me? To take you to bed? Is that what you're telling me?"

She nods. Shuts her eyes briefly, and nods again.

"You're sure? You aren't afraid of–"

She puts her hand to his mouth. "No. I'm tired of being afraid. Doctor Burke has helped me understand that. Already AA is making me understand that. And you're helping me understand that, that I can trust myself. I trust you, Castle. I trust you with my heart. I've never done that before, with anyone."

He's trying to read her eyes, but they keep changing. There's every emotion in them, sometimes one, sometimes several crowding in, making new combinations and alliances. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

She tilts her head to one side. "You ready?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes yes yes. I've been ready since forever."

"Let's go, then," she says, getting up from his lap and taking his hand. "C'mon."

They walk like that to her bedroom, calmly, silently, as if they've made this journey together, taken this path together, a thousand times, when in fact it's brand-new.

"Me first," she says, stopping at the foot of the bed. "Let me undress you." She starts with his feet, picking up one and then the other, very deliberately pulling off his shoes and socks and putting them to one side. Still kneeling, she unbuckles his belt, rolls it up and places it by the shoes. Next she unbuttons and unzips his navy blue linen pants, holds them as he steps out of them, then folds them neatly and sets them on the floor. "Silk boxers," she says, running her hand down the front of them. She looks up at him as she slides her hand inside and then around him. He doesn't know how long he can hold out. "Mmm. You're even silkier than they are." Withdrawing her hand–noooo, noooo, stay, he imagines saying–she stands up. "I'll get back to that. But first, I have to get rid of your shirt." Each time she undoes a button, she kisses the newly bared skin on his chest and his wrists. She removes the shirt, and folds it as carefully as she had the pants.

He gathers up her hands. "Don't finish. Not yet. My turn." His turn is a lot quicker and easier, not only because she's already barefoot, but because when he peels off her sundress he discovers that the only other thing she's wearing is a pair of purple silk panties, so tiny that they're more an erotic suggestion than actual underwear. He slips his hand inside, as she had done to him. "Oh," he says. "Oh, you're just as eager as I am."

That makes her legs tremble.

"Are you all right, Kate?"

"I've never been this all right in my life." With both hands she grabs the waistband of his boxers and yanks them down. That's the only signal he needs, so he pulls her panties off. They're standing face to face, stark naked, eyes locked. "I thought I wanted gentle for the first time," she says, "but I changed my mind." She reaches for one of his hands, and presses it down over her breast. It's the last slow thing that either one of them does.

On sensory overload, he's not thinking clearly, and he doesn't care. The sight and smell and taste of her would have been enough for him to sell his soul, but the sound! She purrs and sighs and whirrs and moans and says the most astonishing things, from heart-stoppingly lyrical to delectably filthy. And how can any woman, especially one who weighs 125 pounds, tops, be this strong? Her legs are wrapped so tightly around his back that he feels as though he's in some satin-cloaked vise, and if he's breathing his last he will die a happy, grateful, deeply, deeply, deeply satisfied man.

"Jesus, Beckett," he gasps.

"What?" Her answering gasp is as sexy as every other sound she's been making.

"I can't believe how strong you are."

"You can't? How about this?"

Even if he were in control of his senses and his wits he wouldn't know how she flipped him onto his back, but she has. They're both slick with sweat, and she slides up his chest, kisses him, slides partway down, and rises up, her powerful thighs bracketing his hips. Then, looking directly into his eyes, she sinks down on him.

"Holy fuck, Castle," she says, still looking at him. "Why did I wait so long for this?"

Oh, he's a goner. And if the rhythm they set, their ideal balance of give and take, is any indication, so is she. He'd be worried about how hard he's driving into her, except that she keeps asking for more, demanding it, and when she comes wildly around him, he's not far behind.

"Oh, my God," he says, as she sprawls on top of him. His left hand is spread against the small of her back and his right is pushing a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "You're perfect. Absolutely perfect."

"Mmmm. You, too."

He really must have fallen asleep this time, because that's the last thing he remembers until a warm and welcome sensation makes his eyes open. She's no longer on his chest but between his legs, with her velvety mouth on him.

"Errgghh," he says.

She lets go and beams. "Oh, good, you're up."

"To paraphrase you, Kate, I've never been this up in my life."

TBC

 **A/N** Continuing thanks to everyone reading and reviewing, including guests whom I cannot otherwise tell how much I appreciate your kind words.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer:** The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** A few readers of the previous chapter thought that Castle joined AA (Alcoholics Anonymous). The support group that he is attending is Al-Anon, which is for families and friends of alcoholics, which is why Beckett was so moved.

"You planned this, didn't you?" Castle had asked groggily a while ago, his left leg thrown over both of hers, effectively and happily trapping her.

"Planned what?" She'd been a little groggy herself.

"This. Sex."

"Did not."

"Oh, you were a panther, just waiting to pounce on me the minute I came in the door."

"Was not."

"Those teeny little undies, Beckett? Really? That's what you wear on an ordinary day? And no bra?"

"It's hot."

"No kidding. This is the hottest night I've ever known, and it's not over."

"Yeah? You think?"

"I don't just think. I know." He'd begun to kiss her then, very softly, very slowly, very thoroughly, which had led to their second round. It had been so gentle, yet every bit as thrilling as the first–in many ways even more.

Now Castle is out cold on his stomach, one arm over his head, and she's stretched out on her side looking at him. She has never known a man as tender as he just was–tender and loving and attentive and imaginative all at once, and so sexy that she's had to lock her hands between her knees to prevent herself from crawling all over him. He's the only man who has ever made her feel completely exposed yet utterly safe, and it has stunned her.

He'd been wrong, though: she hadn't planned this. A little cuddling, maybe canoodling, that was all. But when he'd told her that he'd joined Al-Anon, when he'd said, "I'm in this, all the way in," every block in the passages between her brain and her heart had given way. For the first time in her adult life, she feels free. She can't stop watching him. Even though he's asleep, the air around and between them is charged.

"Hi," she says when he stirs, picks his head up, and smiles.

"Hi."

"I'm starving." She glances at her watch, which is unaccountably still on her wrist. "It's almost twelve. Want to have a midnight snack?"

"I think you were my midnight snack, half an hour ago."

She reaches over to twist his ear. "Is this how it's going to be from now on?"

"I certainly hope so."

That makes her laugh, a full-body, roller coaster of a laugh that goes on and on and on, and makes him laugh, too. By the time they stop she's on top of him, lightly tracing a line down the center of his chest with her fingernail. She's surprised when he quivers at the touch.

"That tickles," he says.

"Ooh, you're ticklish?"

"Not really."

"I'm not sure I believe you, Castle." She tries tickling him in several places, and it's true: he really isn't ticklish. Either that or he has a lot more control than she'd realized. She stops trying to tickle him, but she can't keep her hands off him, and when she runs her fingers lightly around his ear she senses something. She lets three fingertips dance on a tiny spot on his neck, just behind his earlobe, and there are two unmistakable reactions: he starts to laugh, and he hardens very quickly beneath her. She keeps feathering her fingertips, and whispers against his cheek, "Not ticklish, eh?"

Kaboom, just like that, round three. Afterwards she says, "Not to swell your head, Castle, but–"

"You love my swelled head."

"Shut up. Not to–not to make you even more–"

"You were going to say 'cocky,' weren't you?"

She covers his mouth with her hand. "Be quiet or I won't say what I was going to say. Will you be quiet for a minute?"

He nods.

"Okay." She removes her hand. "What happened just now? I've never had that much fun in bed."

That prompts the biggest, warmest smile that she's ever seen. "Good to know," he says.

"That's why I told you." She rolls off him, sits up, and plants her feet on the floor, not altogether sure that she can walk. She stands fine, and turns around to face him. "I really am starving now. You brought biscotti, didn't you? I seem to remember."

"Only two, and I ate one."

"The other's mine, then."

"Sounds fair."

"Really? I can't believe you're letting me have it. Oh, wait. I get it. You just want to watch me walk naked to the living room."

"Guilty."

"Guilty pleasure, more like."

"True."

She takes great, guilt-free pleasure in sashaying across the room. When she returns, half-eaten biscotto in hand, he's out of bed.

"I'm starving, too, Beckett. Let's go get something to eat. As soon as I find my clothes."

"Out there," she waves her arm toward the door. "But, um, don't you think we should take a shower first? I'm not going anywhere smelling like this."

"For the record, I love the way you smell, but okay. But no funny stuff. Even though now I know how much you love funny stuff."

They do take a shower, complete with a little funny stuff. She starts to say something about this being their first shower together when her mind rushes back to the horrific time they were in a shower together, but not actually showering. She doesn't remember it well because she'd been so drunk. He'd found her passed out on the bathroom floor of the cabin, had picked her up and held her in the shower, let the water rinse off the vomit and the blood, let it sober her up a little. The shame of it sickens her; she has to put a hand on the wall to steady herself.

"Hey, you okay?" he asks, concern in his voice.

"Yeah, just a little light-headed."

"Let's get out, Beckett. You need food."

Not long after they're installed in a small booth in the Always Open diner around the corner. "I sometimes forget how cool it is to live in a city that never sleeps," he says excitedly, pushing a plastic-covered menu across the table.

"Sinatra."

"Sinatra?"

"The city that never sleeps. At Yankee Stadium they play Sinatra singing that song, 'Theme from New York, New York,' at the end of every game."

"They do?"

"Yup. You should come to a game with me."

"I'd love to. I've never been."

"Are you serious? You've never been to a Yankee game?"

He shakes his head. "Never been to a professional baseball game anywhere."

"We have to fix this right away. How about Labor Day weekend? Alexis will be totally immersed in Columbia, so if you don't mind staying here instead of your beachfront palace, we could go see the Yankees play the Orioles."

He's almost bouncing on the banquette. "There's a team called the Oreos? That's fantastic. They're from Chicago, right?"

Her life has completely changed over the past four months, and the past seven or eight hours have been–. She can't even come up with a word. Transformative? Stupendous? Not to mention sexsational? Maybe that's why she has no idea what Castle is talking about. Her brain is fogged by mind-boggling sex. "What? No, Baltimore."

"Why aren't they from Chicago?"

She's more confused with each new sentence. "Why would they be?"

He looks at her as if she needs tutoring, and explains patiently, "Because the headquarters of the company that owns Oreos, which are made by Nabisco, is in Chicago. You know, Fig Newtons, Chips Ahoy, Oreos. Staples of the American diet. Mine, anyway."

She starts laughing again, almost as hard as she had in bed. "Ore-ee- _ohls_ , Castle. The bird. Baltimore Orioles. Not Oreos."

He looks primly at the menu. "I'd much rather see a game played by a team named for a cookie."

"Sorry to disappoint you." She laughs again. "I'll buy you a huge bag of Cracker Jack at the game to make up for it."

"I was hoping you'd make it up to me a lot sooner than next weekend." He leans across the formica tabletop until his nose almost touches hers. "And not at the stadium."

Someone is clearing her throat. Ah, the waitress, standing about a foot away. "I'm Bonita. What can I get you today?"

She hasn't even looked at the menu, so she says the first thing that comes to mind. "A bagel with cream cheese and an order of curly fries, please."

"All right."

"Oh, and by any chance do you have Oreos?"

"Oreos? Like, the cookie?"

"Yes."

"No. Well, we do have a special ice-cream sundae with crumbled-up Oreos on top."

"I'll have that, too, please, only without the ice cream, and if you could not crumble the Oreos?"

Bonita looks evenly at her. "So, just the Oreos?"

"And the bagel and fries," she adds weakly.

"Right. And you, sir?"

"That's a lovely name, Bonita. I'll have scrambled eggs, bacon, rye toast, chicken and waffles, and a large glass of orange juice, please."

"Thank you."

Beckett is staring at him. As soon as Bonita leaves, she blurts, "Aren't you afraid you'll explode?"

"I already did. Several times in the last few hours. And I'm hoping to do so again after we go back to bed."

"Oh, God." She covers her face with her hands. She'd leave them there if she weren't sure that their waitress has returned.

"Coffee?"

"Please," they say as one.

When they're alone again she takes a few sips before looking over her cup at him. "Not another word until the food gets here."

With dramatic flair that would make his mother proud, he pretends to lock his lips and throw away the key.

"You ordered so much that poor woman can barely carry it," she says when Bonita approaches with a tray the size of a card table.

"Thank you," Castle says after his breakfast is laid out in front of him.

"My pleasure." She takes two steps away before pivoting. "Oh. Sorry," she says to Beckett, fishing a small package of cookies from her apron pocket. "Here's your Oreos. Uncrumbled."

"Thank you. Actually, they're for him. A make-up present. Apparently I disappointed him earlier."

Bonita's well-crafted eyebrows rise. "Really? He doesn't look disappointed to me."

Beckett waits for her to leave before squeezing some ketchup onto her plate and dipping the end of a fry in it. "Soooo good," she says, and props the cookies against the edge of Castle's plate. "Here are your Oreos. You might want to save a few for later. I know how much you like creamy filling."

His eyes widen.

"You love to lick it off, don't you?"

His fork clatters against the tabletop. "Time to go home."

"Absolutely not. I'm enjoying my food. And you have a lot there. So much to eat."

"I will never be able to look at an Oreo the same way again," he mutters.

"Always good to expand our horizons, isn't it?" She licks some cream cheese noisily from her finger.

When he's finished–and he does polish off the entire meal–she extends her arm and tickles him behind the ear, on a spot she could now find in the dark. "Such an appetite you have," she coos. "I bet you're ready to explode. Don't do it 'til we get home, though. Through the front door, at least. It's a steel door, you know. I'm sure it can survive an explosion."

Half an hour later they're sprawled on her kitchen floor. "You were right, Beckett," he wheezes. "That door really did stand up well."

"So did you."

At seven he leaves. He has to deliver his daughter to Columbia tomorrow morning, so he's going spend all day with her, and make her favorite dinner this evening.

"I'll see you tomorrow night, Castle, after you've become a full-fledged empty nester."

"Don't say that. Besides, my mother is still very much in my nest, defying all ornithological laws."

"Bye," she says, pushing him out the very sturdy door. "Don't worry. You'll be fine."

"Bye. So will you."

What he was referring to, specifically, is the dinner she's going to have tonight with Lanie. She'd kept her best friend in the dark way too long. They're going to eat here because, as she told her, "I don't have a job and I'm pinching pennies." That was true, but the far more significant truth is that she doesn't want to address two very private matters–her drinking and Castle–in a public place.

She fills her day as well as she can by taking a long run, getting a manicure–a small luxury that she decides she can indulge in occasionally–shopping for dinner, and cleaning her apartment after almost four months of benign neglect. Because she's jittery about seeing Lanie, she also calls her father for advice.

"We've all been there," he says. "Just tell her straight out, and ask for her support. And since she's a doctor, she understands that alcoholism is a disease. That's half that battle taken care of, sweetheart."

When Lanie arrives, she throws her arms around her and then claps her hands. "Oh, girl, not working agrees with you. Look at you, all tan. And you look happy!"

"Yeah, well." She's already embarrassed.

"Looking too thin, though."

"I'm eating better now, I promise."

"Now?" Lanie squints suspiciously. "What do you mean 'now'?"

"As opposed to before."

"Of course. Okay, I'm sure there's a story there and I'm gonna worm it out of you." She holds up a plastic bag from a liquor store. "Even if it takes both these bottles to do it."

Oh, God, how could she not have thought of this, of all things? Of course Lanie would bring wine. She has to stall for a moment to summon her courage. "Thanks."

"There's a red and a white because I didn't know what you were cooking."

"Pasta and salad, which is about the limit of my culinary expertise, especially in summer. Which would you like, red or white?"

"Pinot noir. To begin with, anyway. Want some help?"

God, yes, she wants help, but not from the bottle that's now in her hand. "I'm fine. Go sit down and I'll bring you a glass." She gets the corkscrew from the drawer, thankful that she hadn't thrown it out during her cleaning frenzy this morning. "You look good, too," she calls from the kitchen. "You still seeing Sean? He still fun?"

"He's beginning to get on my nerves. About at his sell-by date. I knew it was just a summer thing, and it's almost Labor Day, so."

She can't stall any longer. She has a bowl of olives in one hand and Lanie's wine in the other. "No regrets, then?" she asks as she joins her friend on the sofa.

"Nope." She takes her glass and raises it. "Salut."

"Salut."

"Where's your wine, Kate?"

"About that," she says, looking at her lap and discovering that her hands are already in a knot. "There's bad news and good news."

Her friend puts her glass down on the table. She looks terrified. "What?"

She starts by telling her that she's joined AA, but then goes to the beginning, to recount the story chronologically. By the time she's reached the part where she hits the bar in Berryville, fights off an attacker, and gets arrested, Lanie is sobbing

"Why didn't you tell me, Kate? I'd have gone up there right then. Middle of the night, whenever."

"Because I couldn't. I couldn't even tell myself. I was furious and hurt and wild and in denial."

"But I talked to you at least once a week and I never knew."

"I had enough brain cells left to make sure that I was sober when I called. Or mostly sober."

Lanie grabs her glass, carries it to kitchen, and pours the contents down the drain. Then she takes the bottle from the counter and empties it in the sink, too. When she comes back she's holding two glasses of water.

"You didn't have to do that, Lanes."

"Yes, I did."

"You're not a drunk."

Lanie dries her eyes on a Kleenex. "How did you get out of jail?" Her voice is slightly quavery.

"That's the good news. Or the beginning of the good news. I mean, the good news is that I'm in AA, but this is how it started. Castle."

She has almost never actually seen someone's jaw drop, but she does now. Lanie is gaping.

"Say what?"

"Castle. He was the in-case-of-emergency number on my phone, and the cops called him. I'd forgotten I'd listed him ages ago and I was furious when he showed up. He was pretty furious, too."

"Hold that thought. I have to go to the bathroom. That wine went straight through me."

"Sure. You know where it is."

She shoulders her bag and walks through Kate's bedroom to the bathroom. The instant she closes the door she texts Castle.

"I'm at Kate's. She's told me about her drinking and that you bailed her out of jail. That's as far as we've gotten. Minute she told me I remembered you calling me with a BS story about how you needed her address. I forgot about it til now. Did you tell her you spoke with me? I'm hiding in her bathroom so text me NOW."

She hits send. What if he's out somewhere? What if he's on a date or at some Hamptons party and doesn't read this until tomorrow? She'll count to 50. If he doesn't answer she'll just let it be. She flushes the toilet and washes her hands. No answer from Castle. Fine. She drops the phone in her bag and returns to the living room.

"Keep talking, honey," she says as she nears the sofa.

She does. She talks and talks and talks. Neither one of them thinks about pasta or salad or anything other than Kate's narration.

At one point Lanie says, "I knew it. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't put my finger on it. And I figured you'd tell me eventually. But my radar was going off, you know? I'm a lame-ass excuse for a friend, Kate. I'm ashamed of myself."

"Please, you're not. And your shame can't begin to stack up to mine."

"Wrong. Wrong. You have a disease, Kate. There's no shame in that. And you're working your skinny ass off to fight it. I'm proud of you. Anyway, Castle? Sounds like that man took wonderful care of you."

"You can't begin to imagine."

"I can't?"

"Nope." She can't help herself: she giggles.

"KATE BECKETT! You tell me right this minute what that means."

"Let's just say that as of yesterday we're taking wonderful care of each other."

"Sex! You're having sex with Castle!"

"Mm-hmm."

"I'm kinda sorry I threw out my wine. So spill, now. I want to know everything."

"I'm not a kiss-and-teller, Lanie, you know that."

"We're best friends. You have to tell me something. One word, at least. Or two. C'mon."

She looks seriously at Lanie. "One word?"

"Two. I think you owe me two."

Her serious expression gives way to one of utter bliss. "Unfucking believable."

Simultaneously, Lanie whoops and her phone chirps. "Sorry, sorry. This is probably work. Gotta check." She clicks on her messages. It's Castle. "I never told her. Please keep my secret? For now?"

"OK," she types. "Will do."

Shoving the phone into her purse, she turns back to her friend. "I think I'm gonna need more than two words."

"Okay, um, let me think. How about seven?"

"You're so stingy, but okay. Seven words."

"Not seven words."

"Not seven words?" She moves a little closer. "Girl, your face is as red as that pinot noir I'm not drinking."

"Seven orgasms, Lanie. I had seven orgasms last night. Or it might have been eight. I lost track."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you, thank you, thank you.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

A first fight is inevitable in any relationship, but when theirs happens, it knocks him completely off-kilter.

With Alexis installed in college, they have unlimited time to do whatever they want, and they've been taking full advantage of what the city offers, including a baseball game. The Yankees had beaten the Orioles-Oreos, but not before Beckett had unleashed invective at the umpire that was unlike anything Castle had ever experienced. Fortunately it hadn't been loud enough for anyone but him to hear.

"Where did you pick up that language, Beckett? I don't know whether to be shocked or impressed."

"Vice," she'd said, cracking open a peanut. "Don't ask."

The "don't ask" had been in fun, but it had stuck with him. At first he'd been mildly uneasy, but by the end of the next day he'd felt sick. Not because she'd worked in Vice, which never bothered (and sometimes intrigued) him, but because "don't ask" made him think of secrets, and one that he'd been keeping from her. He'd actually forgotten about it, but when Lanie had texted him from Beckett's bathroom, asking if he'd ever told her that Lanie was one the who had given him the address of the cabin, it had all come back. The whole ghastly day. Ghastly day and night and day and night and day and night until incrementally things had gotten better.

A few hours after Tim Eckley had gotten her assault charge dropped and ensured that she had no record, Castle had showed up at her cabin with lunch. "How did you know where I am?" she'd asked from the safety of the porch.

To protect Lanie–who's he kidding? to protect himself, too–he'd said, "Tim Eckley."

She hadn't questioned it then, there had been no reason to, and it had never come up again. Until a short text from Lanie and two words from Beckett, "don't ask," had uncoiled a serpent in his belly.

It's the night after the baseball game, and when he's clearing the plates from the table in the loft she puts a hand on his arm. "Are you all right?" Her eyes look cloudy. "You ate hardly any dinner. And you're so quiet."

"I know," he says. "I'll be right back." He carries the dishes to the kitchen and puts them in the sink, surprised that the contents of his stomach don't follow them there.

When he returns she's standing, gripping the top of the chair, looking almost as pale as she had the morning he'd seen her in the Berryville police station. "Something's wrong, isn't it? What's wrong?"

"It's–could we sit down? Together? Please?"

She clasps her hands around her elbows, hunching in like an animal trying to save itself from danger. "Tell me what's wrong."

He tries to take her hand but can't pry it loose, so instead he puts his arm around her waist, steers them to the sofa, and pulls her down next to him. "I lied to you."

Her reaction is swift, frightened, and angry. "What? About what? When?"

"The afternoon after you were released, I drove to the cabin. You asked how I knew how to find you and I said Tim Eckley."

She tenses against him.

"It wasn't Tim. It was Lanie."

"No."

"I called her and asked–"

She covers her ears and shakes her head. "No. She couldn't. She'd never."

He needs to get Lanie off the hook, and he's desperate for a clean slate. He rests his hand on her thigh. "Please, Kate, please let me explain. And the fault is not Lanie's. Not at all." He knows that she can hear him, and he waits until, at last, she takes her hands away from her ears.

"I hate this, Castle."

"I do, too. But I want to tell you. I promise not to drag it out." He's going to do this by the seat of his pants, which is frequently how he writes, and hopes that it works out. "It's hard to remember now how furious we were with each other, how hurt, for all those months. Isn't it? When I came up to Berryville after you were, um." Why can't he say it?

She says it for him. "Arrested."

"Right. Well, we were both off-the-charts angry, brimming with recriminations." He waves his hand as if it that would erase the scene. "I was half ready to get you a lawyer and leave and be done with it, but I couldn't. I still didn't know why were you so mad at me, and I wanted to. I knew my side, but not yours. And you'd been attacked. Anyway, I suddenly remembered your saying that you were on your way home when that son of a bitch came after you, and I thought, home? Home is more than a hundred miles away. What the hell were you doing up there? It didn't make sense."

He presses on, trying to be concise and fair. When he tells her that he'd called Ryan she recoils. He explains about lying to Ryan, and while he hadn't lied to Lanie, he'd deliberately kept information from her. It had been a huge sin of omission. "It was your business to tell her what was going on," he says.

"My business? Mine?" She's off the sofa now, jabbing a finger into the center of her chest. "You're damn right it was, Castle. But you know what? It doesn't matter that you didn't tell them the truth about me. What matters is that you went behind my back. Behind my back to my best friend and to someone I work with." She shuts her eyes and winces. "Used to work with."

"I was trying–"

"Stop. Just stop. You've had the whole summer to tell me this, Castle, but you didn't. And I bet the only reason you did is because I saw Lanie, talked to Lanie, told her everything. You must have been afraid of being found out." She stumbles to the front door, grabs her bag, and leaves.

He catches up with her on the landing between the second and third floors. "Kate," he says, putting his hand on his shoulder.

"Don't." She wrenches herself away and runs down the rest of the stairs.

He knows better than to chase her, but he hasn't the physical or psychological strength to go back up. He slumps down, rests his head against the wall, and tries to decide how to unsnarl the unholy mess that he's made. He can't text or email or call. He has to see her, to apologize, to explain, but he'll have to wait a bit. She needs time. He doesn't know what he'll do until then, but eventually he trudges home.

Loading the dishwasher, that will use up a minute or two. When he's putting a glass on the upper rack, he notices the clock on the stove and is startled to see that it's after eleven. It's too late to go to her apartment, but it's also too soon. He tries not to think as he walks to his office. He can't write, but maybe he can read. The most recent issue of _The New Yorker_ is on his desk, untouched, and he begins to leaf through it. "Jesus," he says, when he turns to a full-page ad for a very expensive bottle of liquor. The magazine falls to the floor as he hurls himself from the chair.

Please don't, he pleads silently as he runs to the elevator and rides down to the garage. Please don't. Please, please, please, he repeats as he turns on the ignition. Please don't drink, Kate. Please don't. He pulls into an illegal spot in front of her building. He doesn't care if he gets a ticket, or if his car gets towed. Please don't, Kate. He presses the buzzer but she doesn't answer. Please don't turns into please be at home. Please be at home, Kate, and not in a bar. Please. He rings again. No luck. He'd pick the lock if he could, but it's too complex. And just then the elevator door opens and a couple steps out, apparently on their way to a party, although if their chatter is any indication, the've started ahead of the party.

"Evening," he says, as they come out into the lobby.

"Hi," they respond.

He's through the door and probably halfway up the stairs before the couple reaches the sidewalk. He rings her doorbell. Knocks. Rings, knocks. Softly calls her name. Rings again. Knocks, rings. Now he hears her tired request. Order. Whatever it is.

"Go home, Castle," she says from the other side.

That's it. Nothing more. For close to an hour he sits on the floor outside her door, and finally gives up. Before he goes he takes out the small notebook and pen that are always in his pocket, and writes a few sentences.

Dear Kate,  
If you won't talk to me, I hope you'll talk to Emily. Please.  
I never stopped loving you and I never will.  
Castle

He tears out the page, slips it under her door, and walks out. At least his car is still there.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and he has a horrific dream in which he's at a carnival and Beckett is sitting on a collapsible seat at the top of an enormous vat of liquor. People are throwing baseballs at a target next to her, and when one hits dead center her chair gives way and she plunges into the booze. He's screaming at her to get out, but she's swimming in it and laughing. He wakes up in a sweat and checks his phone. It's almost four o'clock in the morning; there are no texts or emails from her. He pulls off his damp tee shirt, tosses it onto the floor, and goes back to sleep.

He wakes up with a start when something wet lands on his shoulder blade. What the hell? He turns over so fast that he traps something under his ribcage. Beckett's hand. She's in bed with him, and she's crying.

"I'm sorry, Castle. I'm sorry."

"Did you? Are–"

"Did I have a drink? No. I took a bath. And then I took another one because I found the note you left and I wanted to wash off everything that I said to you. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too. But you were right. I should have told you a long time ago. It seemed like a little thing, and then it turned into something big. But I was so frantic then, Kate. I could already see what you were doing to yourself and I didn't know what I could do to stop you. I had to go see you, wherever you were, and that was the only thing I could think of."

She curls into him. "I guess I'm still so raw. I over-reacted. I'm learning how to be a different version of myself but still be me."

"I want you to trust me. I hope you can trust me." He puts his arms around her and holds on silently for a long time, moving only occasionally to run his hand down her spine. "Kate," he whispers. "After you left, I was so afraid that you'd never get in bed with me again. I was afraid that you were gone."

"I was, Castle," she whispers in return. I was gone. But only for a little while."

The next time he opens his eyes it's light, but he can hear rain hard against the windows. She's standing next to him, carrying two mugs in one hand and a plate in the other. "Morning," she says shyly.

"Morning. What's that? On the plate."

"Make-up toast."

"Make-up toast?"

"Yeah."

"Is that a thing?"

"I just invented it."

"Is it as good as make-up sex?"

"I dunno, Castle. We've never had make-up sex."

"Let's try it, then."

"Which, the toast or the sex?"

"Is there a lot of butter on the toast?"

"Yes."

"Okay. First we'll eat a piece of toast and then we'll eat–"

Her mouth is on his before he can finish the sentence.

"We never got around to the toast," he says, much later.

"'s okay," she says dreamily. "Don't think that toast could have measured up to you."

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** One-month time time jump.

Usually she dreads the drawing-in of the day, as sunrise begins to arrive after 7:00 and sunset well before dinnertime, but not this year.

They've spent the last three days in the Hamptons, the town blissfully quiet, empty of the hordes of summertime residents and visitors. In the end of September the air and water are almost the same temperature, and it's delicious. She seldom dwells on or even thinks about how rich Castle is, but it's hard not to in this magnificent piece of real estate.

She's sitting alone by the pool now, holding her mug of coffee against her chest, warm inside and out. She has never felt about any man as she feels about Castle. She has certainly never had the intimacy that she has with him. Sex, yes–though sex with him is better and more imaginative than anything she's experienced in the past–but not true intimacy. She's willing to show her vulnerability, willing–wanting–to talk with him anything. Her mother, her insecurities, her demons, her dreams.

There are so many small and not-so-small things that she loves about him.

He puts books–some old, some new–under her pillow.

His favorite fan, "other than you, Beckett," is a 72-year-old woman named Carol Ann who works in Dunkin' Donuts.

He leaves funny, romantic Post-it notes in her running shoes.

He's not embarrassed about crying in front of her.

At some point every day, often out of the blue, he says, "It's KBT" or, "It's Kate Beckett Time," and goes off for an hour or so to let her be alone.

It's KBT right now, and he's inside writing, which reminds her that she is getting farther and farther away from her last paycheck. She's being trying to push that thought away, lock it up in a box and just revel in her happiness, but it's getting more difficult to do. She needs to work; she wants to work; she yearns to work with him. A cloud suddenly blocks the sun, and a chilly breeze comes off the water. "Thanks for the metaphor," she mumbles to the sky as she pushes herself off the chaise and walks indoors. Standing in the kitchen, she wraps her arms around her chest and shivers. She has to talk to him about this. No more putting it off.

She and Castle share a love of hot chocolate as a comfort drink, so she heats milk in a saucepan. The chocolate-laced cocoa powder that he buys is so rich that whipped cream seems redundant, but he loves it, so she puts a large dollop in the top of his cup and carries it and her slightly more restrained one to his study.

"Hey," she says, bumping her hip against the half-open door. "Can you take a little break?"

It has been fascinating for her to watch him work. Staring at someone who's typing is generally mind-numbing, but not when she carefully watches his face. Especially his eyes and mouth. She's sure that he's unaware how much they reveal while he's concentrating. Sometimes she sits in there with him and reads, but she glances at him as often as she can. Even when she can see him only in profile she intuits a lot about what's going on in his wildly imaginative brain. Now, for instance: she can tell that it will take him a few seconds to react to her question, as he shifts from writer to lover.

"For you? Any time you ask. Even if you don't ask, but just show up all gorgeousity like that."

"Gorgeousity? Did you just make that up?"

"I'm allowed to make up words. I'm a wordsmith. Unfortunately, I can't take credit for that one because Anthony Burgess created it. Smithed it. First time I've ever used it, though. Must have been saving it for exactly the right moment."

He smiles at her with his whole being, and her heart nearly explodes. She'd like to shelve the conversation she's about to start, but she can't. It's overdue. So she begins. "Want to sit on the love seat with me?"

"You bet." He gets up from his desk chair and plops down next to her. "Mmmm, hot chocolate. What's the occasion?"

She doesn't answer right away, and when she does her voice is shot through with wistfulness. "Weather's getting colder."

His smile fades and a look of concern replaces it. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. I mean yes, but."

"Oh, God, I hate 'but'."

She sets her cup on the end table next to her. "I love you, Castle," she says, and squeezes his hand. That had burst out of her, unconsidered, but it's true. She takes a few moments before continuing, and she doesn't let go of his hand. "I love you more than I thought I could ever love anyone. You've taught me the boundlessness of love." She stops again and calls back the courage that has almost escaped her. "And love includes how much you love your work. I loved my work, too, and I miss it. I miss it more all the time. I love being here with you, but I miss working with you. Just now you said, 'I'm a wordsmith.' You can define yourself as a writer. I can't define myself as a cop anymore, and I need to. I need to go back to work."

"You could–"

"Don't say it." She puts her hand up, palm out, and emphatically shakes her head. "I know you say I can go to law school, be a kick-ass lawyer, but that was an old dream of mine, Castle. Being a cop is in my veins now, just as you are. You're in my veins. You know that, right? I want to go back to work, find a way back not just for me but for you." She's almost pleading now. "Will you help me?"

He'd looked so happy a minute ago, and now he looks shattered. "Kate, before you resigned you were almost killed. And the son of a bitch who did that to you is still out there."

"Cole Maddox."

"Cole Maddox. He'll come after you again."

"Not if I'm careful. Not if we put together the pieces I left behind."

"His eyes are cloudy with worry and confusion. "What pieces?"

"Montgomery's wedding album."

"What?"

"In Maddox's hotel room. Javi and I found it. It wasn't just his files that Maddox wanted, it was photos. He was looking for someone that Captain Montgomery knew. He drew a lot of Xes over faces in the album, but one photo was missing. He took it with him."

"And?"

"And Evelyn had a negative, but she didn't know who the man in it was. Ryan got a print. He brought it over to my apartment the morning after I quit because he thought that I might recognize the guy in it, but I didn't."

"So what happened?"

"Nothing. Dead end. Gates put the kibosh on the investigation. Said she'd used way too many precious resources–her exact words–on it already."

"I don't understand, Kate. You didn't know the man in the photo, and the case has been dropped. What pieces are there for you to put together?"

"For us to put together, Castle, not me. Do you know a better team? I don't. Yin and Yang, that's us. You practically said so way back in one of our first cases. Maybe you can ID the guy."

"How could I?"

"Because, you and I can pick apart that picture. Find something in the details or the background. Find something that I didn't see the first time, when I hardly even looked at it. I was done. Not interested. At least, that's what I told myself then. Please?"

"Kate, I don't want you to–."

"To what?"

"To lose yourself again."

Her eyes spark with anger. "You don't trust me."

Before she can retreat he puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close to him. "I do. I do. But I'm terrified of Maddox, terrified of what he'll put you through. What he'll do. The pull of your mother's case is so strong, and I understand that. But it's too much and it's too dangerous."

She twists away and stands up to face him. "All I'm asking is that you look at a photo. One damn photo."

"And if I can't get anything from it either, then what?"

"Then I still want to be a cop again, but I won't do it with that in my pocket. Okay? Clean slate." She lets out a long breath. "Okay, Castle? Will you look at it?"

"He's obviously not happy about it, but agrees. "Yes." That's all he says.

One short conversation with Ryan later, she holds up her phone. "He's sending it to me."

She paces while waiting for the ping of the incoming text, and the instant it arrives she sits down again and shows him the photo. "See? Here. Do you know him? What's here that we can work on?"

He's a good actor; it's in his genes. But he's not so good that he can hide the blood rushing from his face, or the tightening of his lips. Everything about him is taut, and radiating anxiety. "The picture's so small. And fuzzy. Hard to tell."

She doesn't believe him. Without comment, she presses her thumb and finger on the screen and enlarges the image so that only the man's head is visible. If Castle's scared, so is she. "Who is it?"

"Him," he says, choking on one syllable and covering his eyes with his hands. "Oh, God, it's him."

"Who?"

His head is bowed so low that she can't hear his reply. "Who?" she asks again. When he doesn't answer she gently pulls one hand away from his face, and immediately regrets it. She has seldom seen such anguish, certainly not from him.

"Smith." He's looking, if he's looking, not at her but at some unspecified spot on the wall. "His name is Smith. Probably not. Could be anything."

"Tell me. Tell me. Please look at me and tell me." He sighs, and she feels the regret in it. Regret and something. Resignation, maybe?

"Before Montgomery went into that hangar, he sent a package to someone he trusted. A friend. It contained information damaging to the person behind all this. Montgomery was trying to protect you. He was killed before the package arrived, but his friend struck a deal with them. If they left you alone, that package and its contents would remain secret. But they had a condition: you had to back off. That's the reason you're still alive. Because you backed off."

"How? How do you know that?"

"To make the deal to work, someone had to make sure you weren't pursuing it. Your mother's case."

She wants to get up. Wants to get up and run and never stop. Wants to run into the ocean and let herself drown. But her legs are like lead. "Are you part of this?"

That's when he moves, taking her into his arms in an embrace so tight that she can hardly breathe. "I was just trying to keep you safe, Kate. I loved you. I love you. I love you even more now. I can't let you."

She pushes as hard as she can but she can't escape, and finally has to give up. He's too strong. So she says furiously into his ear, "Can't let me what, Castle?"

"Can't let you go. Can't let you die."

"You lied. You lied to me for a year. More than a year. And now this time, all this time we've been together, Castle. All this time we've been together. All this time. I trusted you with everything. With all my heart." Her hands are trapped against his chest, but she manages to push them against him a little. "Let me go."

"No."

"Let me go."

"No. The only reason I lied was to protect you."

"I didn't need protection. I needed a lead, and you had it." Castle's still not moving, so she relaxes against him. "Please. Who is Smith? Where is he?"

He relaxes a little, too, but he's still holding her. "He's a voice on a burner phone. A shadow in a dark parking garage. He was there ahead of me and got the lights out somehow."

"You've seen him? You've _met_ him?"

"Yes, but–"

She has room now, and she beats her fists against his chest, hard. "How do know he's not the one? How do you know he's not involved in my mom's murder? How could you do this, Castle? You betrayed me."

He grabs her by the wrists. "No. No. Listen, Kate. Please listen for a minute. They're too much even for you. They are. Last year your father asked me to stop you. He came to my apartment and begged me. Montgomery asked me. The two most important people in your life asked me to stop you, and I did what I could."

That's what shatters her. Her wrists are still in his hands, but she curls into a ball. She cries as she has never cried, not in jail, not the whole summer she was alone in her father's cabin, seized by every kind of pain. Not even the night her mother died. She cries until her violent coughing makes her stop. It's only then that she's aware that at some point he had let go of her and is gently massaging her back. She manages to get herself into a sitting position. "What about you? You were just following orders? You don't think you're one of the most important people in my life? That's what you did? You made a deal for my life? I had no say in it? What the hell, Castle. I'm taking a walk. Don't come."

She runs to the beach and then she walks. Walks and walks and walks. Her mind is full of everything and nothing. She can't think. She looks out over the water from time to time, occasionally registers a boat, but that's all. She's not aware of anyone on the beach. Who would be on the beach under the gray skies at whatever the hell time it is on whatever the hell day? She pulls the phone from her pocket. 3:25. September 28. Thursday. She has no concept of how long she has been out here or how far she has come, except that it must have been a long time. She sits down on the sand. "How far have I come?" she says to acres of emptiness.

How far has she come? She'd thought that she'd come a long way. She'd thought that she'd come to the perfect place with Castle. She was really learning to be comfortable in her own skin. And now this. This. What is the fucking point of anything if Castle can't trust her with her own life? Because now she can't trust him. What is the fucking point? It's way too late to find this Smith guy, anyway. If they ever could have. She feels a drop on her pants and looks up at the rain, except that it isn't raining. It's not. The drop was from her eyes. She's crying again, stupidly, uselessly crying. She's as weak as she was when she hid away in Berryville.

There's another drop, this time on her shoulder. And then another, on her head. Now it is raining. It doesn't matter. She gets up and begins to walk again. As the sand gets wetter and heavier, her pace becomes a trudge, and she finally stops and looks away from the water. She's reached some town. Not much of one, but it's not just boarded-up summer houses. She turns to her left to go find what's there.

If she believed in portents, she'd believe in this one. She pushes open the door of The End of the Road. That's its name, End of the Road. It's dark inside, and not just because of the early-autumn rain. The overhead lighting, such as it is, is very low-watt. There are only four other people in here. Dammit. She just realizes that she doesn't have any money with her. Nothing but her phone. Maybe someone will take pity on her. Who cares? She'll figure it out. Something.

"What can I get you?" the bearded guy with the beginning of a pot belly asks when she sits down opposite him. "Other than a towel, maybe."

"A towel?"

"Yeah. If you wanna dry off a little. Or you could use the bathroom. Right over there." He points over her shoulder. "Only paper towels, better than nothing."

She shakes her head. "Thanks. I'm good." No, I'm bad, but what's the point? "You have Maker's Mark?"

"Yup."

"Then that's what you can get me, please. Neat. And make it a double."

TBC

 **A/N** Sorry for the long delay in posting, but I was on the road for several days. Next chapter should be up in a timelier fashion. And just a reminder: I always have a happy ending.


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

He doesn't know precisely when she took off, but it couldn't have been any later than 10:30. She's been gone for hours. The temperature is dropping, the skies are roiling, and his stomach is doing both. With every passing second–and that's what he's reduced to, looking at seconds tick by on his watch–he is more agitated and scared. Heart-racingly scared. He wasted the first hour by staying home and not pursuing her, but only because she had told him not to come with her. It was a command, really, and a very angry one. At some point during hour two he took out for the beach, but it was impossible to follow her footsteps; though he is almost five inches taller, she can and does walk and run much faster than he. After twenty frustrating minutes, he turned back.

Had this been a year ago–hell, had it been six months ago–he'd have had a drink. Or two. He might have gotten roaring drunk, might have thrown a crystal tumbler against the wall or the door or out the window. She'd driven him to that once before: last year, the night before Montgomery was killed. He'd hurled his empty glass at a huge mock-up of emHeat Rises/em just a moment before his mother had come into the room. "There's only one person on the planet who can get you this pissed off," she'd said. She'd been right, except, as she well knew, he wasn't just pissed off, he was terrified and in love. Just as he is now, only twice as terrified and at least ten times more in love than he had been then.

He could get in his car and drive around, but what are the odds of his spotting her, especially if she's still on the beach? Could she be? He looks out the window for the twentieth time, fiftieth, he has no idea, and sees a change: it's raining. She's wearing a tee shirt and lightweight pants and sneakers. If she's outside, she'll be drenched and cold in less than a minute. Trying to ease his panic, although the exercise might in fact be heightening it, he describes to himself exactly what she has on. The shirt is purple with a scoop neck and short sleeves, and comes to her hips. The pants are navy blue and stop about four inches above her ankles. Her sneakers are scuffed white Nikes. No socks. Her underwear is–Jesus Christ, don't think about her underwear. This is not a missing-person report. She is not a body washed up on the–. Don't, don't, don't.

She feels betrayed, but he hadn't betrayed her. She has to understand that. He can explain it, he can. She just has to let him. But where the hell is she? And what is she doing? He hasn't dared text or call her, but maybe he should. But she'd ignore it, wouldn't she? Or decline the call? The phone. What's the matter with him? Why hadn't he thought of this before? They had exchanged passwords for use in an emergency, and this sure as hell is one. He yanks his phone from his pocket and sets in motion find my iPhone. Only it's hers, not his. He grabs his keys and runs to the car; by the time he's buckling his seatbelt he has her location. She's about 14 miles away, but she's stopped. She must be inside somewhere./

Five minutes into his vastly-exceeding-the-speed-limit drive, he wishes that he'd brought a towel for her. Clean clothes, a dry pair of shoes, a thermos of coffee. Forget it. Keep driving.

He parks directly in front of the place. He'd let himself think, however briefly, that she could be dead, but he hadn't allowed his mind to go here. To a bar. Not even a hipster bar or a cop bar or a beach bar, just a down-at-heel place that probably never had seen better days. And what does that matter, anyway? She's in a _bar_. His eyes adjust quickly to the dim light. She's not here, but the GPS can't be wrong. In a few strides he's standing opposite three rows of bottles, trying to get his voice under control before he says anything to the man on the other side of the scarred wood.

"Hi. Excuse me, I'm looking for my girlfriend? Wonder if she stopped in? She left home without an umbrella and it's pouring."

The not-so-strong but definitely silent type says nothing.

"Beautiful. Tall. Dark brown hair. Amazing eyes. Purple tee shirt, navy blue pants, white sneakers?"

"You a stalker or something?"

"What? Me? No. I'm her boyfriend. Really. I, I'm worried about her."

The bartender is sizing him up, but giving him nothing.

"Look, she's a cop. Would I be crazy enough to stalk a cop?"

"A cop, huh? Hottest cop I've ever seen."

If he jumps over the bar and strangles the son of a bitch, he'll land in jail and be no use to her. Maybe he can humor him. He swallows the bile that's rising in his throat and manufactures a passable guys-will-be-guys smile.

"Right, tell me about it. I'm the luckiest man in the state of New York."

It works. The bartender shrugs and says, "She went to the john, I dunno, maybe five, ten minutes ago. Right behind you."

"Thanks." He attempts a nonchalant gait as he crosses to the door and pretends to knock. The jukebox is just loud enough for him get away with it. After a few seconds he turns the knob and goes in. It smells of old booze at war with some vile industrial cleaner. There are two stalls, and he sees her feet under the far one. Before doing anything else he turns around and is relieved to find an old lock on the door. He latches it.

His luck holds–if there's luck in any part of this horrific situation–when he discovers that the stall is unlocked. She's sitting on the floor, her back to the grimy wall, and there's almost no room for him even if he remains standing. But he can't talk to her from up here, so he squats down and his knees bump hers. She's soaking wet and paler than any corpse he's seen on a slab in the morgue.

"Kate," he says, reaching out to push back the hair that's stuck to her forehead. "Kate."

"Don't."

"Please." He tries to cradle her face but she bats his hand away.

"Don't touch me."

"Let's–"

"Stop it." Her voice is like cracked glass. "Stop it. Everything is ruined."

"Nothing's ruined. We can fix anything."

She drops her forehead to her knees and presses her hands on top of her head as if to hold it there. "Sixty-six."

Sixty-six? Sixty-six what?

She says it again and he's still at sea. Finally he asks, because what can be any worse than not knowing?

"I'm so sorry, Kate. I don't understand what you mean."

"Sixty-six days, Castle. I was sober for sixty-six days and now it's over."

He'd been wrong. Knowing is immeasurably worse than not knowing. His heart constricts. He feels as if there's a nexus of wires somewhere in his chest, and dozens of titanium threads are being pulled inwards at the same time, hard and tight, and immobilize him. All he can do is look at her, see this human anguish played out on the cracked tile floor of a damp bathroom in a bar. There had been no call to Emily. No call to him. Of course no call to him. She doesn't want him here. She's furious at him.

He's not furious at her. He's furious at everyone else. Smith, Maddox, the bartender. He knows he's not being fair to the last one, but he doesn't care much about fairness at the moment.

"You had a drink."

"Yes, I had a drink."

She's almost spitting. He doesn't care. Let her be mad at him. He's finally found his voice and he's going to keep talking until she listens.

"One. You didn't have a second and you came in here."

"Don't you get it? I had a drink. It doesn't matter if I sipped it or tossed it back. It's the same. I drank it."

"And then what?"

"What?"

"And then you stopped. You came in here and–"

"And shoved my finger down my throat to make myself vomit. Yes. That's what I did. Are you happy?"

He can't believe how much this hurts, but he has to keep pressing.

"I'm not happy, Kate. How could any of this make me happy? I'm heartbroken. I'm heartbroken for you and for my part in sending you here and I want us to fix this. Will you come home with me? Please. I'll do anything you want. You can call Emily."

"Too late for that."

God, he's grateful for the time he's had in Al-Anon, even though it's been only two months. "It's never too late. And whenever you're ready I'll talk to you about Smith. Anything. Everything. But please come home."

"I hate you right now."

"I know you do."

"I hate me."

"I know that, too, but I wish you didn't."

Someone bangs on the door.

"Just a minute," Castle shouts and looks at her again. "But I don't hate you. And we're going home, okay?" It takes him two more minutes of beseeching and another round of hammering on the door before she stands up. He laces his fingers through hers and she tries to pull away, but he won't let her. When he sees the slightly swaying barfly waiting he apologizes. "Sorry about that. She's not feeling well."

They're almost through the front door when the bartender calls out, "Hey! You owe me fifteen bucks."

"Hold on," Castle says to Kate as he releases her hand. He runs back, drops a pair of twenties on the bar and mumbles "sorry." What he says in his head is _sorry I didn't give a hundred, but she had a drink, for fuck's sake. And if I'd known she was coming in here I'd have given you fifty thousand not to serve her._

It's raining even harder than it had been, but he persuades her to get into the car. As soon as he's in his seat he activates the locks. Whatever it takes to keep her here, keep her close to him.

She's silent during the drive, and keeps her head turned away from him. After he pulls up to the kitchen door he jumps out and races to her side, grateful that she has stayed put. "Come on in the house." She's not moving. "Please. Please. I'll make coffee."

"I'm not drunk," she says to the windshield, her voice impossibly both acidic and dead.

"I know you're not. We could both use coffee though, couldn't we? It's really cold and you're wet."

"Damn right I'm wet. Until an hour ago I was dry. Nine weeks and three days."

This feels worse than Berryville, because she's achieved so much, they've built so much since then. "You know what? Now you've been sober for an hour, and by tomorrow afternoon it'll be a day. Okay, so it's back to square one. You've done some of your greatest work when you've had to go back to square one." He's soaking now, too, and he reaches inside the car and takes her hand again. "Let's go in."

She doesn't accompany him happily, but at least she does it. As soon as they're inside she drops his hand, walks to the window and stops, staring out. He leaves her there and takes the stairs two at a time. In the master bathroom he turns on the water in the tub, makes sure it's the right temperature, and adds peony bath oil, her favorite. Leaving the water running–it takes a few minutes to fill something that large–he runs back down the stairs and finds her still in front of the window. "Good. You're here."

"Did you think I'd left?" She's still not looking at him.

"I hoped not. I ran you a bath. It'll warm you up."

He touches her shoulder and she turns around, but walks by him, her head low, and goes up the stairs. When he hears the door shut he sighs and starts the coffeemaker. He's cold and wet, too, so he strips in the downstairs bath and takes a quick shower. Wearing nothing but a towel, he pours two mugs of coffee and goes up to his–their–bedroom where he pulls on boxers, wool socks, and a heavy robe. There's no reason to change: he's not going out again today. It's 5:30 but already feels like evening, or maybe night.

Kate's still in the bath. He can hear occasional splashes, and he's weighing the pros and cons of taking the coffee in to her when he hears something else, a muffled sound that he can't decipher. It's fragmented, and unsettling. He leaves the coffee on a table and opens the bathroom door. She's standing outside the tub, naked, holding a towel hard against her face and screaming into it. Not quite screaming, but like the muted keening of an animal caught in a trap.

He takes the towel away from her, tugs it gently out of her hands, and lets it drop to the floor. He unties his belt so that he can throw his robe wide open and wrap it around both of them, enveloping them in soft terrycloth. They're skin-to-skin, and she seems so fragile that he feels as if he's practicing kangaroo care, holding her as close as he can to bond with her. Except that they already are bonded, powerfully bonded. Unbreakably bonded, he's sure of it. He has to be sure of it because he's hanging on for both of them right now. He hugs her even closer, aware of her breasts flattened against his rib cage, of her heart beating, of the beautiful scent of peonies on this awful day. She's quieted, but he's surprised that she's not fighting him. Maybe the fight has gone out of her, and he's of two minds about that.

"Do you want to talk?" he asks, his cheek against her wet hair.

"No."

"We have to talk about this, about everything, but we don't have to do it now. We're both exhausted. I think we should lie down for a while."

When she doesn't answer, he takes a step back so they are a few inches apart. She doesn't move, so he reties his bathrobe. The hell with it, he's going to dry her off. With a clean towel he wrings most of the water from her hair and rubs her down hard. It's only then that he sees a fresh, deep-purple bruise spreading across the knuckles of her right hand. "What's this? What happened?"

"Nothing."

He presses lightly on it and she winces. "That's not nothing. It must hurt like hell. You look like you were in a fight." He wills her to look him in the eye, but it doesn't work. "I'm putting Arnica on this." He grabs a tube of it from the medicine cabinet and one of his oversized tee shirts from a shelf, and slips the shirt over her head before dabbing ointment on her hand. The air is so fraught; can he lighten it or not? Is that the wrong thing? He can't go on like this, and he's willing to risk a little lightness.

"You sure you didn't run into a boxer on the beach"–he almost says "in the bar," but catches himself in time–"and decide to go a few rounds?"

At last, hallelujah, she looks up. "I hit the wall."

"Can I hope that you mean the metaphorical kind that you sometimes hit when you're on a really long run?"

"No."

"A wall, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How did it look afterwards? Were your knuckles a worthy opponent?"

"Might've knocked a little paint off. In the stall."

"Okay. Well. someone else can look after the wall. I'll look after you."

Wrong thing to say. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Shit. At least she's no longer expressionless.

"I can look after myself, Castle."

This is a point they have to play, one of many, but he's damned if they're playing it in here. He manages to snare her good hand. "Come on, we're going to lie down."

As soon as they reach the bed, he pulls her down alongside him. They're lying on their sides, facing each other, and she's going along with it. Thank you, God.

"You can't look after yourself, Kate. I can't look after myself, either. That's what love is. Neither of us gives up our independence when we acknowledge that we need the other. I think we both need something else right now, which is sleep, but not before I say something. When we talked today about Smith and Maddox and Montgomery, we were both right and we were both wrong, but in this case it's incredibly hard for us to see the other person's perspective. Given what I know about these monsters–just the ones I can identify, not to mention the ones I can't–I would do it again, do anything to protect you. You thought it was paternalistic–patronizing, maybe–and none of my business, and I should have considered that. But I was too terrified to think of that. And I believe, really believe, that if the situation were reversed, if someone were gunning for me and you had the ability to hold them off by not letting me in on it, you'd do it. You'd make the deal. If that's what it took."

She's moving her legs, and her foot brushes his once or twice. He's not sure if she's aware of it, but he is. Everything in him is.

"Castle, look–"

"I have to say one more thing first. When you gave the wall your best shot today, who were you punishing? I'm almost certain it wasn't me. That wall didn't represent me, angry as you were, betrayed as you felt right then, it represented you. You punished yourself when you slammed your fist into that cinder block. That's something I'm understanding in Al-Anon. You felt that you betrayed yourself–and maybe me, maybe your father, too–when you had that drink. People slip, Kate. Your father did."

"Don't bring my father into this."

"People fall down, and they pick themselves up."

"I'm not other people."

"Does that mean you think they're stronger than other people or weaker?"

She doesn't answer.

"Because you're the strongest person I know, but even the strongest person needs help. I know that you know that. If you have to hit a wall, next time hit me."

"Is this what it's going to be like every time something gets to me?" Her voice is raw and thick. "When something's too much? That I hit the bottle and have to claw my way out all over again? Start the clock all over again? Because I don't know if I can."

"Can I ask you something?"

She nods.

"Do you wish that you'd called someone today, before you went into the bar? You wouldn't call me, and I understand that, but do you wish you'd called Emily?"

She closes her eyes for a long time and at last says, "Yes."

"You answered your own question, then. You have Emily. You have all of AA. You have all the support you'll ever need. If you think you're ever going to forget that, I'll remind you. And here's one more thing. Do I wish today had never happened? Yes, but it did. And no, because awful as it's been, we'll both learn everything we need to from it. Hang on to me, Kate. Please hang on to me, because I have to hang on to you, too, to keep myself afloat. I love you."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you all. Happy Father's Day. Just a reminder that alcoholism is a disease. Please do not be too quick to judge. Also: Kate will not slip again.


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"Hi."

"Hi." She's opened her eyes right into his. His bedside light is the only illumination in the room, but she can see his beautiful eyes. He needs a haircut, but she hopes he doesn't get one: the shagginess is so sexy, especially when he's all rumpled, as he is now. Self-consciously, she licks the corner of her mouth. "Ugh. I have to brush my teeth. Did I fall asleep?"

"Yeah."

"For long?"

"About three hours, I think. I kinda lost track."

"Did you sleep?"

"No."

She cranes her neck but can't see the book that she's sure is on his nightstand. "Did you read?"

"Uh-uh."

"What did you do?"

"Watched you."

"There's three hours you won't get back."

"I don't need to. I loved it."

"You did? Why?"

"I loved watching your eyes move under your eyelids." He's so gentle as he touches her eyebrow. "I loved watching your mouth, how you pouted sometimes, and sometimes nearly smiled. But you know what the best thing was? Seeing your anxiety disappear. You looked peaceful. Content." He pauses for a while, as though he's deciding whether to say something else, and he does, but his voice is lower. "When you were sleeping you weren't beating yourself up."

"Oh." She's not sure how she feels about that. "Um."

"Um? I hope that um means 'I'm hungry,' because I haven't eaten since breakfast and I'm starving. It's too late for anything heavy. Want some scrambled eggs?"

"My favorite dinner."

"I know. Kind of mine, too." He runs a fingertip around the edge of her ear, and she involuntarily shivers. He slips out of bed; she stays. She can't hear much from the second floor, but he left the bedroom door open and she recognizes the sound of the frying pan making contact with the stove. When she smells coffee–a reminder that they'd never drunk the mugs of it that he'd brought here earlier–she gets out of bed, too. Before going down to the kitchen, she brushes her teeth. A glance at herself in the bathroom mirror isn't rewarding, but she doesn't look as awful as she might. She still feels so raw.

"Perfect timing," Castle says, setting plates down on the table just as she walks in.

"What's that? Besides the eggs. It smells so good."

He gestures to her to sit down. "Something you introduced a few weeks ago but that we never got around to eating. Make-up toast. Only this is cinnamon make-up toast, sweet but spicy."

Suddenly she feels sad and wistful and hopeful, all at once. She needs to hang on to him; he'll hang on to her. "That's nice, Castle." It seems inadequate, but it will have to do for now, until she can say everything that's on her metaphorical, very full plate. She eats half her eggs and a piece of toast before she starts.

"I have to explain about yesterday." She shakes her head. "Oh, God, it was today. It all happened today." She looks across the table, half expecting him to pick up the conversational thread, short as it is. He doesn't, and it's up to her. It should be. "I left here furious at you, and ended up still angry, but angrier at myself." She jams her hands between her knees. "What I wouldn't give for Burke right now."

"For what it's worth, Kate? I think you're doing fine."

"I've been thinking about what you said, that we were both right and both wrong. I agree. I'm a cop, was a cop, and I have to remind myself to think not in black and white but in all shades of gray. I think I'm good at it most of the time, except when it comes to my mother's case. That's driven me for years, you know that. It's not just that I could have worked on a lead, that you hid that information from me, but that you and Montgomery didn't let me decide for myself. Even my dad didn't have faith in me. I'm a grown woman, with the emphasis on woman. What you did reduced me to the status of little girl. Or little woman. I've had to fight sexist bullshit–worse than sexist, lots of times, degrading, humiliating, disgusting–every day I've been on the force. What you did denied me choice over my own life, my own actions."

She takes a sip of coffee, and then another. She won't allow herself look at him, doesn't want any verbal cues or distractions. Just has to say her piece. "I know that you did it out of love. That takes some of the sting out of it, but not all. When I learned that you'd even met the guy who had the information I needed? That was the proverbial straw, Castle. That's what broke me. I don't even know what I was thinking most of the time when I was out on the beach, walking on the sand. But what I did feel, in every part of me, was that everything was for nothing. If you couldn't trust me now, never mind before, but now, after all we've been through in the last few months, then everything was lost. I was lost. The case was lost because the trail to Smith is probably dead cold. And we were lost. That was the worst. We were over if we couldn't believe in each other."

That's when her tears start again, but she's determined to talk through them. She feels them land on the neck of the tee shirt that Castle had dressed her in after her bath, and she releases her hands from the grip of her knees and runs the heels hard underneath her eyes.

"I didn't go out there with the intention of drinking, I want you to know that. That's entirely on me. I was just in total despair, and when the wet sand got so heavy that I could barely walk I decided to go in somewhere. That's when I realized that I was right by some town, and when I got off the beach right away I saw the bar, and that was it. I was done for. I knew it the minute I saw the sign. And I walked in and ordered a double bourbon and didn't care that I didn't have any money. Didn't care if I had to ask someone to buy the drink for me. I just didn't care." For the first time since she began, she looks at him, and she's shocked to see that he's crying, too. Silently, just as she is. She leaves her eyes on him.

"But that's on me, Castle. That's entirely on me. I take responsibility for that, not you. Do you remember what you said to me in the bar bathroom? That you were heartbroken for your part in sending me there? You have to shake that off, throw it away. You didn't send me there. You didn't make me ask for the drink, or pour it in a glass for me. You didn't tell me to swirl it around in my mouth and swallow it. That was my decision."

She can't go on any more. She's never said this much in one sitting in her life. Castle can talk for hours, but she isn't made that way.

"I'm exhausted. But I have to say one more thing. I'd never thought about what I'd do if the tables were turned. Would I make that secret deal for your life if you were in danger? Would I do it if I were as terrified for you as you were for me? I don't know, but probably yes. Because I'd have to save you any way I could. The only thing I know for sure is that I love you more than I ever thought possible. No, that's not the only thing I know. The other is that I've been sober since sometime this afternoon, and I'll be sober tomorrow. And the next day and the next. Sometimes it might be a minute at a time, not a day. I hope not, but it could be. But that's how I'll take it. Because we're hanging on to each other, right?"

He nods, still crying.

"We should go to bed. But I don't want to go to sleep with asking you something. Two things. I asked you before, but it's different now. I'm different." She holds up a finger. "Will you help me get back to the NYPD, and you, too?" A second finger joins the first. "And will you help find Smith? If there's any chance? If I promise to do it with you, not flying solo? If we can get Ryan and Espo to help?"

Castle has dried his eyes on the sleeves of his tee shirt. "Okay. Okay. But if it starts eating you alive, and if there's nothing there, will you promise to stop? Promise to go back on the job with a clean slate? That's what you said, you know, before."

"Yes."

"But one more thing."

"Okay."

"I think we should take a few days before doing anything, don't you?"

"Yeah. Listen, I, um, texted Doctor Burke before I came down here. Asked if there were any chance at all that he could see me tomorrow. It's Friday, but I'm hoping. I said it was an emergency."

"You want to leave for the city really early in the morning? So if he answers you and says yes, you'll at least be on the way?"

"Yes. Thank you again. Thanks for thinking of that. I wanted to go back tomorrow, anyway, so I can go to a meeting. I have to stand up and start over." She pushes her chair back and circles the end of the table until she's standing behind him. She winds her arms around him, leans forward and says into his ear, "I needed to touch you. Make sure that you're still real."

They go upstairs, hand in hand, and wake up only because his alarm goes off.

"What time is it?" she asks sleepily.

"Five-thirty."

"How long is it going to take us to get home if we leave in forty-five minutes?"

"Maybe three hours."

"So, nine fifteen?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Because we had make-up toast and now I want to have make-up sex."

"You're on," he says, laughing.

"You bet your balls I am," she says, rolling him onto his back. "I'm on you."

Half an hour later they're showering together. "I've never had a quickie with you before," he says, running a soapy hand over her breast.

"Did you like it?"

"Loved it. Did you?"

"You know I did."

"Even the little surprise? I know you don't usually like surprises."

"For that, I make an exception," she says, before giving him a short but very hard kiss.

"I was saving it. Seemed like a good time."

"It was. And speaking of time, we have to get out of here."

They're in the car, halfway to Manhattan, when Burke texts that a patient had cancelled and that he can see her at eleven. "Want me to drop you at his office?" Castle asks. "You'll be about an hour early."

"Yes, please. I'd rather be there then worried about it sitting somewhere else. And I'm going to the meeting afterwards, okay?"

"Okay. I can pick you up if you like."

"Thanks, but I think I'll walk. At least partway. It'll be good for me."

It's after four when she walks through the door of the loft and kicks off her shoes. "Oh, that feels good," she says with a little moan. "I knew I shouldn't have done that in heels."

"How did it go?" he asks, stepping out from the kitchen with a glass of water for her.

"Pretty well. Incredibly tough in the meeting. Everyone was great, but it nearly killed me to have to declare one day of sobriety."

"I'm sorry."

" 's okay. I'm trying to learn optimism from you, Castle. So when I go to a meeting on Monday I can say four days, which is four times more than now."

"You're a good pupil, Beckett," he says, and kisses her on the neck. "I have some news for you, too. Come in the office and I'll show you."

She follows him in and drags a chair next to him at his desk. "Okay, I'm ready."

"I called Ryan. Asked him to send the photo that he sent you. Of Smith."

Her stomach lurches. "And?"

He clicks on the screen and the picture emerges, slightly grainy because it's been enlarged, but still remarkably clear. "See this?" he asks, pointing at Smith's wrist.

"His cuff?"

"No, his watch. I thought I recognized it, and then I did a little research. It's a Nautilus thirty-eight hundred."

"Never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. It cost ten grand back then, in eighty-one. That was the year it came out, five months before the wedding. I did some digging, and there were only seventeen sold."

This time her stomach flips. "Did you get any names? Of people who bought them?"

"No, but don't be discouraged. Nine were given to a legal team as a reward for a huge civil suit they won against big tobacco. Smith was a good enough friend of Montgomery's that he was at the wedding, so it's more than likely that he has law-enforcement connections, right? I called Ryan and asked if I could meet him for coffee. I gave him my phone so he could run my records. The last time Smith called me was months ago, but I know the date. Won't ever forget it. It was from a blocked number, but Ryan's trying to see if he can trace it, trace where he called me from."

As if on cue, Castle's landline rings. He grabs it after one ring. "Ryan?"

During the short conversation with the detective, she watches rapidly changing emotions on his face, beginning with disappointment but ending in something that looks a lot like happiness, or the promise of it. "Thanks, Ryan. Yeah, she's right here. Seriously, I owe you. Just name it. I have to go, but I'll be back in touch." He turns to her and smiles. "Long story short, Smith phoned me from a yacht club in Westport, Connecticut. He must be a member. If I have to go up there, show the doorman a picture and bribe him to get a name, I will. Won't be the first time. But we're going to take the weekend off first. We need to relax and we need to be calm when we start this. Deal?"

"Deal." She leans over the arm of her chair and kisses him. "I love you, Castle."

TBC

 **A/N one** This story will not go through the entire case regarding Smith, just a small bit, since the circumstances are very different.

 **A/N two** To the anonymous reviewer who wrote, "Alcoholism is not a decease it's a sickness": some people and organizations would agree with you. I'm not sure why you made the comment, but among the many, many professional associations that classify alcoholism as a _disease_ , not a sickness, are the World Health Organization, the American Medical Association, the American College of Physicians, the National Institutes of Health, the American Psychiatric Association, the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism, and the National Association of Social Workers.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** Since "After the Storm" didn't happen in this universe and Beckett and Castle didn't find Senator Bracken that day, there are some differences in the story line here. Ultimately, they don't matter. The finding of and meeting with Smith is not at all the same, though Beckett's confrontation with Bracken is much closer to canon.

It hadn't taken them long to discover who Smith is. He really _is_ Smith, Michael K., a 64-year-old lone wolf of an attorney who works on his own, not as a member of a firm. He's a consultant with untraceable clients, a man who operates under the radar, and a man of obvious wealth, though he does not flaunt it. That much Beckett and Castle had been able to figure out on their own, with just a little research. But Smith is close to untraceable himself, and finding him had taken more than bribing a yacht-club doorman.

What it had taken, three weeks ago, was Castle cashing in an enormous IOU. ("Don't even ask," he'd said to Beckett.) A computer geek known as Gotcha was in his debt, and to get out from under he had applied his formidable skills to ferreting out information on Smith, including the fact that he owns a small office building in the Flatiron District. Armed with that knowledge and more, Castle had been able to get in touch with the elusive attorney and pressure him into a meeting.

Kate had reluctantly agreed not to go with him; there was a still a price on her head, and it was too dangerous. Castle had carried a voice-activated micro recorder disguised as a pen so that he could get the conversation on tape. He'd been so anxious that he hadn't even commented on the James Bond aspect of it. Afterwards, when he'd walked into the loft on that cool evening in early October, he'd looked dazed and sick, and that had unnerved her.

"You're shivering, Castle," she says, putting her arm around his shoulder, "and you're so pale. What happened?"

She'd persuaded him to sit down on the sofa and wrapped him in a quilt before she made tea. "I put extra honey in it," she'd said when she'd pressed the mug into his hand. "You look as though you're in shock. Wait a few minutes before you try talking, okay?"

When he'd started to speak she'd stopped him and asked if he'd rather give her just the major points, but he'd shaken his head. "Do you want to play me the tape instead? Would that be easier?"

He'd shaken his head again. "No. I need you to hear this from me, not from him."

"I don't want you to sugar coat it for me." She'd unconsciously gripped his forearm while she'd made that plea.

"I won't."

It had been painful for him to recount, and equally hard for her to hear. What Smith had disclosed–as much as he'd been willing to disclose–was shocking and frustrating, but also invaluable. Cole Maddox hadn't left town after he'd thrown her off the roof, as she'd thought, but moved on to his next punching bag. That night, while Smith was out at dinner, Maddox had broken into his apartment and waited.

"He damn near killed him, Kate. Just as he did you." Castle's voice is somehow both dull and razor-sharp. "He broke most of his fingers, crushed a lot of bones in his hands, and beat him unconscious. The only reason that Smith is alive is that the next-door neighbor was alarmed by the scream she'd heard, and when she knocked on the door no one answered. She called nine one one. Maddox was long gone by then, but the EMTs got to Smith in time. He was hospitalized for more than a week."

Sickening as that was, it wasn't the most dramatic part of the story. Maddox had been looking for the file that had ensured Beckett's safety. Smith had burned one copy, but when Maddox tortured him he'd finally admitted that he'd placed another in a floor safe in the small office building that he owned. He'd supplied the address, but had passed out before giving Maddox either the location within the building, or the combination.

"So he got it, Castle, didn't he? Maddox has it? A guy like will know how to crack open a safe."

"No. I mean, yes, he opened the safe, but no, he doesn't have the file."

Her stomach had turned over. "Then what? I don't understand."

"The building is old, six stories, and it's being gutted for a total interior rebuild. The first morning in the hospital, Smith called someone, I have no idea who. Someone he trusts implicitly and who operates off the grid, too. Smith had rigged the safe with explosives, so that anyone who broke into it would be blown to bits. Which is exactly what happened to Maddox, as Smith assumed it would. He sent him there to kill him, file be damned."

"He's dead?"

"Yes."

"And no one heard anything?"

"If they did, they thought nothing of it. Demolition and construction have been going on there for the last two months, so everyone in the area has gotten used to a lot of noise on the site. Smith dispatched his Mister X to the scene. He and an assistant"–Castle makes air quotes around the word–"cleaned up the area. They scraped up whatever was left of Maddox and shoved it into a couple of heavy-duty Hefty bags. He's probably under tons of garbage in some landfill now, which seems appropriate. Anyway, they washed the floor with bleach, and that was that. It's not as though anyone was going to file a missing person's report on Maddox. The son of a bitch was a disposable hit man."

Castle had picked up his mug, found it empty, and shivered again. "Is there any more tea?"

"I'll make some."

When she'd returned with the fresh ginger-lemon brew, she'd felt defeated and terrified. The file was destroyed. Maddox would be replaced by someone else who would come gunning for her if she made the slightest move on her mother's case.

"I never expected Smith to be that ruthless, Kate. I'm not sorry that Maddox is dead, but Smith is like ice. He gives me the creeps."

"And we've got nothing. Again."

"No, here's the good news, or possibly good news. We've got something, but it's in thousands of pieces."

"What are you talking about?"

He'd leaned over and retrieved from the floor the messenger bag that she hadn't even noticed he'd been carrying. "This," he'd said, holding up a large ziplock bag filled with tiny scraps of paper. "This is the file, or what's left of it. Mister X thought that Smith might want it, so he gathered it all up and took it to him."

"Smith gave you that?"

"Yeah, well, I don't think he believes for a minute that we can make anything of it. Maybe it's some kind of perverse challenge. There's blood on that paper. Literally."

They had worked alone on this all week, keeping Ryan and Esposito out of it. But when Castle had shown her the bag of paper she'd called Ryan. He hadn't answered, and she'd left him an intentionally vague voicemail. "Hi, it's Beckett. Listen, there's been a little development in a cold case of ours. I know it's the weekend, and tomorrow's Sunday, but if you have any time at all, would you and Javi be willing to meet Castle and me? We're trying to, um, piece something together, and we could really, really use your help. Thanks. Oh, and Castle will make anything you want for breakfast, beginning with Irish soda bread."

The boys had arrived early the next morning. As soon as all four of them had ingested enough protein, carbs, and caffeine to fuel them for a siege, they'd put on crime-scene gloves and spread the scraps of paper on the dining room table. After six exhausting hours working with tweezers, magnifying glasses, tape, and some banking information that they'd extracted on the fringes of the law, they'd found it: a paper trail that led directly and undeniably to one William Bracken, former assistant district attorney in the great City of New York and currently a venal, ambitious member of the United States Senate.

That was ten days ago, and she's been skittish as all hell since then. Castle has done everything he can to divert her, most recently with lavish and outlandish ideas for Hallowe'en. "It's my fourth favorite holiday," he announces as he empties bags of candy corn into two bowls decorated with glow-in-the-dark dancing skeletons.

"I'll take the bait," she says, knowing that that will please him but also appreciating his attempts to keep her mind off her mother's murderer. Because even if Bracken hadn't wielded the knife, he'd paid the man who had, and that made him the killer. "What three are ahead of it? I'd have thought only Christmas."

"My birthday was in second place forever, but it recently dropped down a slot, and that pushed Hallowe'en off the medal stand."

"Really? So what knocked your birthday down to third in your personal Holiday Olympics?"

"March ninth," he says, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "The day I met you at my rooftop book party." He holds her with his eyes, and his look gets softer and softer. "It's inching up on Christmas. More than inching, lately. It's coming up fast on the mistletoe and the stockings and the carols and the tree and yes, even the presents. It might take the gold. One of these days."

She's so touched that she doesn't know what to say, until she finally pulls herself together. "March ninth is pretty much it for me, too, Castle."

"It is?"

"Yeah."

He looks so happy, and this seems like the wrong time to say what she has to say, but when will it ever be right? She and Castle had promised each other: no secrets, no going rogue. She knows he's going to hate this, but she's been working on it in her head for days. She can't be idle any longer. "Um, listen. About monsters."

"You're going to be a monster for Hallowe'en? That would be–well, let's just say I have some fantasies about that."

"No. No. I–. You know, Election Day is almost here, too. Bracken's re-election day."

"I know."

"There's a campaign thing, fancy dinner, tomorrow night at the Widmark Hotel."

"For high-rolling donors, I bet? Of whom I am most definitely not one."

"Yes."

"And?"

"And I want to go. Just for a few minutes. On my own."

"No."

"Castle."

"Why do you want to go? You can't exactly have a chat with him, Kate."

"I know that. But I have a plan. And I promise you, it's not dangerous."

"How are you even going to get in?"

"I've got it covered."

They argue about it for a long time, until she persuades him that it's not, in fact, a terrible idea.

"You sure you don't want to sleep on this?" he asks later, when they're reading in bed.

Having made her decision, she feels calmer than she has in years, and she wants him to feel the same way. "No. I'm good." She takes the book from his hands, sets it on the nightstand, and crawls on top of him. "Only thing I want to sleep on is you."

Twenty hours later she's at the cocktail reception at the Widmark. She's always liked Hastings, a good, solid cop who's on security detail at the hotel tonight, as she knew she would be. She'd mentored her when she was a rookie at the Twelfth, and hadn't hesitated to ask her to open a velvet rope at the reception and let her in. It's not as though she's going to commit a crime.

She stays near the edge of the crowd, but not all the way on the fringe. She's dressed well, but not flashily, and her make-up is understated. The idea is to look like the bottom fifth of the guest list, not the top. Not to be seen; to keep moving, but not too fast. She crosses behind the bloviating Senator, and slips a burner phone into his pocket. In seconds she's on the other side of the room, and calls him from a house phone.

"This is Kate Beckett," she says to the baffled Bracken after he answers. "I see that you recognize the name. I'm watching."

"I don't know what this is about, but I'm not interested in playing games," he says.

He's trying to sound cool, but she's rattled him. Good. "Well, you better get interested." He's seen her now. Also good. "I have information that will destroy your career, and I will use it unless you do exactly as I say."

They meet in the kitchen. She wants him to admit to the deaths of her mother and Captain Montgomery, McCallister and Raglan. Of course he won't. He feeds her a line of sentimental bullshit, about what he learned as a kid, how he knew then that he wanted to make the world a better place. She doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, vomit, or kill him. If she could get away with the last, she would. That's one of many reasons that she'd left her gun at home; she can't risk temptation. When she calls him on his claptrap, he changes tactics, calling her a delusional, disgraced cop whom no one will believe.

"I, on the other hand, am a decent man looking out for the little guy. That's who the public sees. I've made sure of it. And I won't let you or anyone else get in my way. In this game–and it's a game, Detective, no matter what you may think–the only thing that counts is who has the power. And that's me, not you."

When he turns his back and starts to walk away, she draws her metaphorical gun. "I have the file. Smith had another copy. 0-8-6-7-2-2-4-1. That's the bank account where you deposited all your dirty millions. I could release that and destroy you, but that would be the end of me. So, the deal that you had with Smith is ours. And if anything happens to me, or anyone that I care about, that file goes public. Am I clear?"

The bastard is standing there, and hasn't said a word.

"Am I clear?"

"Yes."

"One more thing. I'm done being afraid. It's your turn. And for now? I'm unarmed, but I'm not without a weapon." She has studied three martial arts as well as kick boxing, and excels at all of them. She lets loose her fury, and in seconds connects. There's not a mark on her, but she's broken his nose. He's already clamping his handkerchief to it to try to stem the bleeding. "A kitchen can be a dangerous place. Pity you tripped over your shoelace out here. You're gonna have a nasty bump on your nose from now on. Every time you see it, think of me."

She gets outside through the service door and makes her way to the street. It has begun to rain, and she has no umbrella. She doesn't care. On the contrary, she rejoices, slowly walking several blocks and letting herself get drenched. Years of anguish and fear and rage are washing away, the filth of Bracken is washing away. She turns right, then left, and sees Castle's car at the spot they'd chosen for him to wait. She pulls the door open and gets in; he'd thought to bring towels, and two are covering her seat.

Even in the dark she can make out the worry on his face. "It's fine, Castle," she whispers, and squeezes his hand. "We reached an understanding. I won't get justice for my mother today, but that's fine. I know now that I will. We will. One day."

"Anything else you want to tell me?" He squeezes her hand in return, and smiles.

"Just that next time you see Bracken on TV you might notice that his profile has changed. Apparently he tripped over his shoelace and broke his nose." She snaps her seat belt shut. "Let's go home."

Over the next few weeks she puts thoughts of Bracken aside. She helps Castle decorate the loft for Hallowe'en, and enjoys it. When she sees the Senator's victory speech on television on November 6, she mutes the sound. "Don't get too sure of yourself," she says to his on-screen image before she has the satisfaction of turning off the set.

What she and Castle have given their most attention to is getting back her, and his, job. She discusses it at length with Dr. Burke. She will argue her case with the brass at One PP, and Castle will speak to the mayor, but before they do they confer with Ryan and Esposito. The detectives know how much she wants to return to the force, and they want her there. "You, too, Castle," Espo says. "I mean it."

The only thing she's that she's uncomfortable with is one of the key points that she intends to make with the bosses. "Guys, are you sure that you're all right with this? My saying that I had the highest closure rate and since I left it's gone down significantly?"

"It's the truth, Beckett," Ryan says, shrugging his shoulders. "How could we object to that? Not exactly a secret that you're a rock star."

"Thanks, but we know that that rate was what it was because we were a perfectly matched team."

"Will be, Beckett," Espo says. "Will be again. Do what ever you have to. We got your back."

"You always have. Thank you."

And so it is that early on the morning of November 16, the Friday before Thanksgiving, she and Castle are in Victoria Gates's office. The captain is bridling at the orders that she has received, that Katherine Beckett and Richard Castle are to be reinstated at her precinct.

"This department works on the chain of command. I have to accept what I'm ordered to do by my superiors, whether or not I like it. And I don't like this. But I am your immediate superior, Detective, so you will have to accept this order from me. You will serve a three-week suspension, just as Esposito did last spring. On your return, you will have to requalify at the shooting range, just as you had to last year."

"Yes, sir."

"Is there something you'd like to say?"

"No, sir. Just thank you."

"I expect to see you both here at oh seven hundred on Monday, December tenth. Perhaps not you, Mister Castle, as I know you have a habit of wandering in when it suits you."

"No, sir," he says. "Oh seven hundred it is. Thank you."

"You're dismissed."

They get up, and thank her again in perfect synch.

"One more thing," Gates says, putting her reading glasses back on and glaring over the top of them. "I expect the closure number to be back where it was in May. Pronto."

"Yes, sir," Beckett says. "Pronto."

"Let's take a walk," Beckett says once they're outside again.

"Where to?"

"Nearest AA meeting. There's one at St. Paul's in fifteen minutes. And there's that really good coffee shop across the street where you could wait for me."

He stops in the middle of the crosswalk and grips her hand so hard that she winces.

"Ouch."

"Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. You need an AA meeting right now?"

"Not for a reason I'm sure you're dreading Castle," she says, pulling him across the street. "I'm fine. I want to go to a meeting because I don't want a drink. I want to celebrate without a drink. Isn't that amazing?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes, it is amazing. And wonderful." He looks around. "Isn't there an alley near here?"

"An alley? Yeah. If we go left here there's one three blocks down. Why?"

"Because we're too close to the precinct for me to kiss you out here."

He does kiss her in the alley, and she kisses him back, hard. "There's more where that comes from," she says. "But not now. Or here," she adds, brushing soot from her coat.

"I know. We have a lot to celebrate today."

"We do."

"Even more tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What's tomorrow?"

"Your birthday. I Knew you wouldn't remember. I have a surprise."

She takes him by the elbow and heads to St. Paul's. "You know how I feel about surprises."

"I do. I just hope you'll like this one."

"Is someone jumping out of a cake?"

"No."

"Okay, then."

When she wakes the next morning, he's not next to her in bed. She can smell coffee, so he must have been up for a while. She goes to the bathroom, brushes her teeth, and puts on her slippers.

The sun is not quite up, but there are no lights on except in the kitchen. "Morning," she says, as she walks across the living room.

"Happy Birthday."

"Thank you. What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Wanted to get a early start." He moves his arm to the right and turns on the overhead lights, and now she sees half a dozen large, molded-plastic boxes stacked next to the front door.

"What's that?"

"Moving crates. I rented them."

"Are you moving?"

"No. But I hope you are." He reaches her in one giant stride, and envelops her in a hug. "Move in with me, Kate, please?"

"Is this the surprise?" she mumbles into his chest.

"It is. What do you say?"

"Yes. I say yes."

"Best birthday present ever," he says, drawing her in as closely as he can, "and it's not even my birthday."

TBC

 **A/N** One chapter to go, and I hope to post it soon. Happy Canada Day, Happy Territory Day, and Happy Independence Day today and later this week for many countries. Thank you all for spending almost six months with this story.


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

They had both had to make adjustments to her moving in, but the process–both emotional and physical–had been remarkably smooth, and the loft had quickly gone from being his space to theirs. Martha is ecstatic about the arrangement; Alexis is not, but she's warmed up considerable. She's also seldom there, since she lives in the dorm.

They work together at least three days a week, though he usually shows up with coffee a couple of hours after she's left home. He usually writes when he's not at the precinct or out on a case with her. He often writes a while in the mornings, evenings and on weekends, when she might read, go for a run, do errands, or bake. To her astonishment, she's discovered that she loves baking, and she takes cake or cookies, muffins or rolls, a tart or a pie to every AA meeting she attends.

"Holy shit, Kate," one member with a pierced eyebrow, nose, lip, and cheek told her as he wolfed down three of her cookies. "These are totally, like, a bazillion times better than Chips Ahoy!"

She hadn't given much thought to what it would be like to work cases when they weren't just partners but _partners_. One difference is that they're even more in synch than they had been before. Their friends know, so there'd been no need to be on guard with them, but they had to be careful at the precinct, especially in front of Gates. Until the day things had changed. Until the case that had truly nearly blown them apart, when she had been standing on a bomb and couldn't move or she'd end up like Cole Maddox. She'd told Castle to leave; he'd insisted on staying. Afterwards, while they'd been standing outside, Gates had arrived and instructed her, yes instructed her, to kiss him.

"Sir, you know?"

"Do you think I'm an idiot? I need to maintain plausible deniability, which I can continue, as long as you two both act professionally at the precinct."

Which they had done and continue to do. The minute they had reached home that day, however, professionalism had gone out the window, and their clothes had hit the floor.

It's a relief that the Captain knows. It makes everything easier. Life as a whole is easier for her than it had been since her easy childhood. And happy? God, she is happy.

She'd been an optimistic kid, even an optimistic adolescent, until her mother's death had also been the death of her hopeful nature. Castle had revived it. His optimism is infectious, and so is his enthusiasm. She has come to delight in holidays, including ones she'd never heard of, beginning with St. Cecilia's Day, which is five days after her birthday. That morning Castle had given her a new iPhone and a $500 iTunes gift card. When she'd been puzzled, he'd explained: "Saint Cecilia is the patron saint of music, Beckett. I don't know if she'd approve of all your musical choices, but she's a saint, so she's forgiving." For his birthday, when he'd been going stir crazy, stuck at home with a broken knee, she'd invented, with considerable help, a _Rear Window_ -ish fake homicide for him. A year earlier, the thought would never even have occurred to her.

But her favorite holiday to date might be June 7. This year it had fallen on a Friday, and the instant that her shift had ended she and Castle had gotten in the car and headed north. All she'd known was that they had, had, had to go to an unspecified place outside the city, and it had to be now. He'd also put a mysterious package on the back seat. "No peeking, Beckett. And by the way, it's not for you."

When they'd turned off the road into a strip mall, she'd known exactly what their destination was: Dunkin' Donuts.

"Carol Ann no E, Castle? I'm finally going to meet the mature woman of your dreams?"

"You are."

"I've been asking about her for ages. Why today?"

"Why today? And you a member of a mighty police force. I'm shocked." He'd clamped his hand over his heart. "It's June seventh."

"So?"

"So? So June seventh is National Doughnut Day."

"Please excuse my ignorance."

"This once," he'd said as he'd taken the small shopping bag from the back seat

He'd talked about Carol Ann so often that she could have picked her out of a crowd of a million, even if she hadn't been wearing her DD uniform. The end-of-day rush was over, and aside from two teenage girls giggling at a table by the window, Carol Ann had been the only person there.

"Wow, Rick," she'd said as they'd closed the door behind them. "I'm not usually one for clichés, but you're a sight for sore eyes. So is she. She's the one, right?"

"She is. Carol Ann no E, this is Kate Beckett."

"I figured. It's about time."She'd wiped her hand on her apron and extended her arm across the counter. "Pleased to meet you, Kate."

"Pleased to meet you, too, Carol Ann. I've heard a lot about you."

"That probably goes double. Mind if I give this guy a hug?"

"Not at all."

"Good, 'cause I would have anyway." She'd come out from behind the counter and had indeed hugged him, so hard that Beckett had half expected to hear his ribs snapping.

"So, what brings you here today of all days?" Carol Ann had asked him.

"It's June seventh."

"Of course. Silly me. National Doughnut Day."

"I didn't know until a couple of minutes ago that there's a National Doughnut Day," she'd admitted.

"They'd looked at her in matching gazes of horror. "Celebrated in song and story, Beckett."

"Really? Song and story? What song?"

"Okay, not a lot of songs. But I could name a lot of stories."

"Such as?"

Castle had looked at Carol Ann. "Hard to believe that I fell madly in love with a woman, a woman who is a voracious reader, who's never heard of a doughnut story, isn't it?"

"Love is strange, Rick. Why don't you fill her in?"

"Geez," she'd half-heartedly protested. "I just walked in here and the two of you are already ganging up on me."

Carol Ann had patted her on the hand. "Nah. But I'm going to get coffee and doughnuts and bring them to that table over there, and Rick and I will enlighten you." She'd stepped over to the kids, "Hey, Tiffany and Brooklyn? I'm locking up for the day now, okay? You have a nice weekend." She'd more or less whisked them out the door, put the CLOSED sign in the window, and put some things on a tray.

"Here we go," she'd said, placing a plate of doughnuts in the middle of the table. "Glazed. Rick is a discerning man. Knows his doughnuts. Here's your skim latte with a double shot of vanilla, Kate, and Rick's black coffee, and mine with half and half."

"You know how I like my coffee?" She'd been horrified to hear herself squeak.

"Course I do," Carol Ann had said with a wave of her hand. "Please, have a glazed. On the house. So, Rick, what's your favorite doughnut story?"

He'd scrunched up his face as if he were pondering an intellectual problem. "Gotta be _If You Give a Dog a Donut_. What about you?"

"I'm going with _Who Needs Donuts?_ "

"Oh, yeah. Classic, a classic. Still holds up forty years later."

She remembers thinking that this had been like watching some otherworldly tennis match or stumbling into an obscure literature class.

"Don't mean to leave you out of the conversation," Carol Ann had said kindly. "You know what would be the perfect book for you?"

"Um, no."

Her eyes had lit up. "Bet he does. Don't you, Rick?"

"I bet I do. You mean the–"

"Mystery?"

Dear Lord, they even finished each other's sentences.

"That's the one," Castle had said, smiling widely. "Shall we?"

And together they'd shouted, " _The Case of the Missing Donut_."

"I promise to buy you a copy, Beckett," he'd said solemnly.

The three of them had sat at the table for hours, talking and laughing on National Doughnut Day. It had been perfect. Sometime after 8:00 Castle had stood up. "We shouldn't keep you any longer, Carol Ann no E. I don't want you to have to drive home in the dark. And I have to settle my bill."

"No bill to settle, Rick. It's National Doughnut Day, and I was closing up, anyway. Your coming here, and bringing Kate, that means more to me than even those outrageous tips you always give me."

"Thank you. Oh, I forgot, I brought you a little something in honor of the holiday."

"You did, huh? Does it come with a card? You ask me, Hallmark could do a lot worse than having a line of cards for National Doughnut Day."

"Sorry, no card. I wrapped it, at least."

Carol Ann had carefully untied the ribbon and rolled it up, and just as carefully peeled back the paper. "Oh. Oh, my. Is this?"

"It is."

"A galley? Proof? Whatever you call it?"

"That's exactly what it is. Of the new Nikki Heat book. Won't be out for a few more months. There are probably some typos in there. If you find any, let me know so we can fix them before the pub date."

"Gotta give you another hug for this. Thank you. Gotta hug Kate, too."

It had been a rib-cruncher, and she'd loved it.

"Come back soon, you two. Don't wait until next June seventh."

"We won't," she'd promised.

"When you get to the end there are a couple of blank pages," Castle had added, "but then there's a paragraph on page two sixty-eight. Don't miss it."

As soon as they'd gotten back in the car she'd asked about page 268. "Acknowledgements, right?"

"Right."

"Is Carol Ann in there?"

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

" 'Enormous thanks to Carol Ann, whose counsel, doughnuts, and unlimited kindness helped me through the hardest summer of my life.' It's true."

"I know it is. That's really sweet, Castle. I can see why you're crazy about her."

"Pretty crazy about you, too."

"Same here."

A whole summer has gone by since then. Alexis has started her sophomore year at Columbia, and Martha has a plum part in an Off-Broadway play that's such an immediate success that there's talk of moving it to a big theater. Today is September 29th, a hugely important day for her, as well as for Castle, and she's grateful for the luck of it being a Sunday so she doesn't have to ask Gates for time off.

"Ready, Castle?" she asks at 4:15.

"Ready. You sure you want me to come?"

"Five thousand percent sure, yes."

She wants to leave now, to make sure they have plenty of time to drive to the Upper West Side, even if the traffic is awful. They're going to an open AA meeting at 5:00, open because it's not only for recovering alcoholics but for friends and relatives or just interested people who don't have a drinking problem. She's chosen it so Castle can be there. It's a first for him; he's never attended a meeting with her, heard her speak openly about her problems with other people.

They enter the church basement fifteen minutes ahead of time. She recognizes a handful of people, but the remaining four dozen or so are strangers.

At the beginning of the meeting a woman named Kayla asks, "Is anyone having an anniversary today?"

"That's my cue, Castle," Beckett whispers, then walks to the front of the room and turns to face everyone in the chairs.

"My name is Kate, and I'm an alcoholic."

The community of men and women, millennials and octogenarians, someone in an Armani suit and another in jeans and flip-flops, calls out, "Hi, Kate."

"I've been sober for one year today." She smiles and nods at Castle. "My partner over there scraped me off the floor one night, held me up in a cold shower and washed off all the vomit and blood. I know a lot of you are familiar with a scenario like this, right?"

There's a forty-part chorus of rights, yeahs, and laughs.

"I called him a son of a bitch, but he kept holding on. A few months later he had to get me off the floor again, only this time it was in some crappy bar where I drowned sixty-six days of sobriety in a glass of bourbon. I had to start the clock all over again, a year ago today, and he was there to back me up, every minute."

She talks for a while longer, and two others speak after she does. When she takes her seat again, next to him, he says quietly. "I am so proud of you."

"Couldn't have done it without you," she says, and kisses him on the cheek.

When they're on the way to the car he takes a wrong turn.

"This way," she says, pointing south.

"Nope. I'm taking you to dinner to celebrate. I made a reservation at a new place three blocks from here. To celebrate you."

"It's not a big thing, Castle," she says.

"No. It is a big thing."

"Okay. You're right it is a big thing. Where are we going?"

"Hudson Al Fresco," he says. "It's on the roof of a new building with incredible river views. Good thing the weather is so nice."

The dinner is lovely, but she's itching to get home. There's something she wants to say to him, but not in a public place.

When they come into the loft, she takes his hand. "I know some people don't like the fall, because it's a sign that winter's coming, but I love it."

"Me, too."

"It always feels like the start of something new. I think I've felt that way since first grade. New pencils, new lunch box, new shoes, everything. The air is so clear. But especially this year." She stops for a moment. "Castle?"

"Mm hmm?"

"Let's get married. Let's get married and have a bunch of kids and adopt a dog."

A smile erupts on his face, one so broad that it seems to spill over his cheeks and out into the air. "You read my mind."

"Always could. Since day one." She takes his face in her hands and gives him a deep, passionate kiss. "What do you think? Is it a deal?"

He's still holding her hand, but he lets go, reaches into his pants pocket, and takes out a tiny velvet bag. "Give me your hand again, Beckett. I've been carrying this around since the day after your birthday, when I asked you to move in with me. When you said yes I went out and bought it. Almost accidentally sent it to the dry cleaners last month." He slips a diamond ring on her finger, and kisses her knuckles. "It's a deal."

"All of it?"

"You mean marriage, kids and dog?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Good. Let's start working on it tomorrow. Right now there's a bed waiting for us."

 **A/N** After everything they've been through, they deserve a happily ever after, and in my world they get it. I started this as a short (!) birthday present for a friend on a bitterly cold January day and finished it on a blisteringly hot one in July. Thank you for going through the seasons with this very difficult story, the toughest and longest that I've ever written, and for sending so many kind words of encouragement along the way. I hope to be back soon with another story.


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